


starve my heart of touch and time

by venomedveins



Series: of magic & monsters [13]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, M/M, Magic, Magical Creatures, Mpreg, Multi, Smut, Violence, alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:06:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7902535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomedveins/pseuds/venomedveins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ashur begins to lay his plan into motion. Agron and Nasir's relationship is trusted as something dark looms before them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	starve my heart of touch and time

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to all the people who stuck by me even though this chapter took forever to post. I appreciate all your love and support. As always, thanks to habibinasir who puts up with my crazy rambling and coffee addiction, even when we were in no man's land Maryland.

The day Malik turns two months old, Galena is ravaged one of the worst winter storms the city has ever seen. Clouds begin to roll in from the west fairly early in the morning, shadowing the sky into a murky gray green. The thunder that follows echoes around the mountain peaks, the snowy caps flanked in fog that seeps down onto the streets. It licks at the base of the castle, inching through the gardens and the sprawling lawns, and slowly eases its way towards the ginormous stained glass windows. 

It forces the city into silence, shop windows kept closed though chimneys pour dark smoke into the bitterly cold air. The market is empty, no shouts or singing along the cobblestone streets. It seems all of the peasants have barricaded themselves inside their homes, warm and safe from the bitter cold. 

Inside the castle, the workings of the court continue on. Servants bustle around with wreaths of pine and holly woven around their heads, wrapped in suedes and velvets to fight off the bitter chill given off by the stone walls. Fires are stoked high in their large stone places, cedar and fir shavings being added to fill the castle with the warm scent. 

Much as Duro and Tove warned, the Alptraum court will find any reason to celebrate, and though the weather rages outside, the games celebrating Malik's life continue. Arena like rooms reside under the castle, walls lined with weaponry, padding and training mats, and some host rooms lined with raised seats so that spectators can observe and enjoy the spectacle. There are matches held nearly every day, small competitions of javelin, long jumps, stone tossing, wrestling, and the likes. The sword play and horse fueled competitions take place on a field along the east side of the castle. It separates two gardens, but due to the snow, the dirt track and markers are covered.

Agron and Nasir attend when they can, usually gracing through for a round or two of some activity, showing their support. Often times they come in together but leave separately, stolen kisses in between rounds, a lingering glance. There is no time for royalty relaxation though, not with the influx of messengers, envoys, and foreign diplomats and royalty arriving. They all wish to be greeted by the kings and dined in the grand hall. Every night seems to be a feast, music filling the stone walls as musicians sing to the health and prosperity of the royal family, the legends of old, and long forgotten fairytales. 

Though the games are for him, Malik does not seem to care for or against attending the events in his honor. He seems to grow every day, large green eyes always watching and calculating, tiny hands no longer curled in fists but grab onto anything close enough for him to touch. He's taken to grinning at people that he knows, little pink gums spread open wide whenever Duro, Pietros, Chadara, or Naevia are nearby. For Agron and Nasir, it's magnetized. Malik has developed different calls for them, delighted when his parents come into view. Agron's call is a high pitched yip repeated over and over again, little hands waving erratically until Agron bends down to kiss Malik's face, the baby shrieking even louder when the rough play of his stubble tickles along Malik's sensitive skin. Nasir's call can range in severity depending on where and what Malik is doing. Nasir's loud cry is a warble of noise, chattering loudly and Malik will kick his legs and wiggle his body, anything to get closer to his Baba. He also has a quieter sound, a soft little coo that he makes when either Agron and Nasir are holding him. It's the quiet sound of contentment, reassurance right before his fathers lower him into his crib or have just woken him up.

Ashur does not receive the happy, lively treatment by his nephew. It’s not for lack of trying though, as Ashur seems to constantly be around Nasir now, hovering right behind his shoulder and always whispering. Malik doesn’t seem to care for him, having never been allowed to be held by Ashur as Agron and Pietros’ combined effort rings true. Still, Ashur does smile at the baby and attempts to hand him toys, but Malik will have none of it. He shies away every time, seeking out a familiar face instead. 

It cannot be helped. The discovery of Uddin’s frozen body, stained around in a halo of red, had deeply disturbed the royal house. There was no cause, no reason for his sudden death, a mystery that many in the court assumed was suicide based on the fact alone that he was found below abandoned rooms of the castle. Nasir’s and Pietros’ despair was palpable within the castle, mourning for a week, as is Pythonissan tradition, and casting prayers and magic over the body before it was inevitably burnt. Ashur was quick to offer his support and guidance, a thing that Pietros scoffed at, but Nasir took under the guise of family and strength. 

Agron and Pietros whisper about it between their quick lessons on Pythonissan tongue and traditions, and passing each other in between going to see Duro and leaving his rooms. They conspire and plan, only to have Ashur sink his claws deeper into Nasir. Every attempt to thwart Ashur’s plan, whatever it is, fails because in all honesty, Ashur technically isn’t doing anything. Not anything that they can see. He stays with Nasir, always quiet and calculating, but he has yet to show any sort of claw or ill will. 

All in all, they can only wait and watch, holding their breath until Ashur reveals his true colors. 

\- - - 

Agron wakes up to a meteor shower, a thousand flaming lines shattering through the violet sky, cross crossing in reds, gold, and orange. There are three moons that hang at different levels closeness, pocketed by craters and shimmering crystals. Below the quiet chiming of bells and a soft harp, whispers fill the air. They’re unrecognizable, a murmuring song that seems to hinge on desperation. As if the world knows that he's here, he's supposed to be here, and only needs to listen to know why. 

Though not of this world, Agron knows this place, the familiar caressing of dewy, soft grass against his naked skin. Gold dust sticks to him, gathers in the crevices of his body as long tree branches sway above him. The scent washes over him: jasmine, spearmint, cloves. It is as familiar to him as his own skin, his own body. 

The gentle caress across his forehead is unexpected, soft, cold hands that pet along his brown and down onto his temple. When Agron turns his head, still laying prone on his back, he is slow to recognize the fact he does not know this man. Yet, some features seem almost familiar, as if Agron should know who is he. 

Dark eyes peer out from under heavy eyebrows, a scattering of freckles along his nose and cheeks. There is a narrow and pointed jaw under his short beard, a full mouth slightly open as he stares down at Agron. It's the hair that seems to spark the memory, long inky strands that hang wavy and thick to around his waist. Around each wrist, a thick cuff of silver winds, a snake's hissing mouth left open with emerald eyes. He isn't naked, legs wrapped in thin lilac fabric that hints more on sheer than not.

Although Agron can feel the cold press of his fingers against his brow, it is also clear that the man isn't as solid as first thought. He keeps flickering, the dying light of a candle, shimmering slowly in and out of focus. It gives the illusion of a phantom, the idea of a man but the magic here isn't strong enough. Agron doesn't know what to do, sprawled on his back, having a staring contest with a man he swears he's never seen before.

_Wolf King_

His lips don't move, but a gentle voice flutters through Agron's mind, sweet and light. Slowly, as if shy, the man begins to stroke along Agron's forehead again, fingertips following the downward slope of his furrowed brow. 

_Do not be afraid. I mean you no harm._

"Who are you?" Agron's voice sounds, though he does not remember opening his mouth. It's almost as if he thought the words and suddenly they were here. 

_I do not have time to explain._

Like the image of him, the man's voice flickers as well, weak and soft. The murmuring among the trees gets louder the longer they stay here, like a crowd slowly beginning to grow outrage They do not seem happy that someone else is here, trees shaking brilliantly colored leaves around them. 

_Please. I must warn you._

"Warn me? From what?" Agron can feel his nakedness more presently now that the man's fingers have moved to his hair, caressing through the strands. He wants to roll over, move his hands to cup and hide himself away, but Agron is paralyzed. The grass seems to have grown taller, not only kissing against his back, his ass, his legs, but instead as started to braid itself, a vine sneaking around his ankle. 

Frowning, the man eases a strand of his hair behind his ear. He's very beautiful, and yet the expression on his face and the dark circles around his eyes hint at his exhaustion, his sadness. There is a kind of deep forlorn shadow hanging over him, a sorrow that even the beauty of this place cannot dispel. 

_Beware of him, he who comes in promise._

_He holds malice in his heart._

_Do not fall._

The man's flickers longer this time, fluttering in between there-ness and nothing. The world around them shudders, the cries of the trees and the stars above them hinging on a roar. He tries to say something else, a desperate cry to his voice now, but he can't seem to get the words to form. Instead, his fingers turn sharp and claw-like on the side of Agron's neck, leaning forward until all Agron can see is his face, silver veins slowly seeping across it. 

_Ashur has no magic. Only what darkness gives him._

Someone screams his name, a long, high note that grows louder and louder. It blocks out the sky, the sprawling heat of the falling stars, the man's desperate face, his tear landing on Agron's cheek. It stings as if a bee has pricked him, electricity shooting across his spine. 

This time, when Agron wakes, it's with a gasp. He knows he's back in Galena, can feel the soft furs tickling against his naked skin, recognizes the canopy of fabric and the stone walls just beyond it. The fire in the hearth has burnt down until crimson and orange flickering in the darkness of charred wood. 

Beside him, Nasir is curled on his stomach, hands tucked under him. Though his face is mostly obscured by the thickness of the pillow, Agron can still see the smoothness of his forehead, eyelashes twitching as he dreams. His breath is sharp though, little pants that dampen the cloth in front of him. Gently, Agron slips his hand down Nasir's body, guiding him over onto his side and pulling the blankets up around his shoulder. Instantly, Nasir's chest expands, sighing contentedly as he finds a more comfortable position. 

It's the simple act that soothes Agron's racing heart, the pain cutting through him from the dream. He can still feel the phantom press of that tear, the shock of magic that he does not recognize. The man had seemed so earnest, so desperate to reach Agron, and yet Agron cannot recall ever meeting him, ever seeing his face. 

He wants to wake Nasir, to ask him what to make of this dream, of some random man appearing in what he thought was their secret magic space. But Malik only fell back asleep an hour ago, demanding to be fed and then to be rocked back to sleep. Nasir had been so exhausted, cradling their son to his chest, that Agron doesn't reach over for him. He'll let Nasir sleep, not worry him with bad dreams and unexplainable things. 

 

\- - - 

"Again!" Spartacus claps his hands, stepping back into the circle of sand. 

Before him, Nasir spins the practice sai daggers in his palm, easing back into formation. He crouches low, one arm extended while the other is curved up and tight, second blade close to his eye. Across the room, Naevia adjusts her own grip on her wooden sword, mouth gritted in a straight line. 

They collide with a loud hiss, Nasir matching Naevia's careful swings with his own practiced hits. It takes a lot out of his wrists to block her savage blows, the daggers holding up against her strength, but the shock traveling up his arms, making his elbows ache. He keeps pace with her though, adding a flourish of a spin when she raises her sword up. 

"She has the stronger weapon. She has the advantage. How are you going to weaken her defense?" Spartacus shouts over the sound of clacking wood. 

Nasir grits his teeth, taking in the surroundings. The sand isn't firm under his feet, beaten soft from his and Naevia's bare feet. To the left, Saxa and Mira are wrestling, attempting to pin one another. Nearby, Crixus and Barca sit and observe. Yasmina is perched on one of Crixus' big thighs, sitting astride and gently weaving small flowers into the straps of his chest piece. 

Nasir can see that Naevia is using a brute force of her strength to wield the sword, leaving her left flank open. It is not intentional, but Nasir cannot get close enough to slam in a hit to disable her stance. It only takes a moment to realize that, just as Naevia's sword smacks Nasir hard in the shoulder. 

"Hold your guard, Nasir." Spartacus chastises, separating the pair for a moment. He steps towards Nasir, using gentle but firm hands to lift one of Nasir's elbows higher, guiding him through the motion of a block. "You can hit all you want, but if you don't learn to block, you are dead already."

"Let's go again." Nasir spits, flashing wild and fiery eyes at Naevia. 

"Come on highness." Naevia mockingly bows, a tease with a bite. "Show me what you can do."

This time, Nasir attacks first, coming across the sand with quick handwork. He slams his daggers into Naevia's sword, pushing her back one step and then another. It does not throw her complexly off balance though as she raises her arms, efficiently breaking the hold and spinning back. Nasir is ready though, crouching down to the earth and kicking off, efficiently sweeping his shin across Naevia's knees, flipping her off her back until she lands with a rough thud. Nasir isn't done though, throwing a leg over Naevia's small waist and pressing both of his daggers in an x to her neck. 

"Excellent!" Spartacus cheers, clapping enthusiastically. "Perfect form!"

"Fucking yes," Naevia laughs under Nasir, panting hard. "I was waiting to see that temper. You have improved greatly, Nasir."

"We shall see," Nasir crawls off of her, offering a hand to help her stand. "I have a feeling Crixus is still going to kick my ass." 

"Don't take it so hard," Naevia wraps her arm around his shoulders, leading him over to the water bucket in the corner. "Crixus was born with a sword in his hand. He can still best Agron and Spartacus."

“I want to be able to do that,” Nasir drinks heavily from the small bowl of water, “I want to have some worth other than magic and making babies.”

“Those are important skills though, Nasir,” Naevia gently pats his shoulder, “You do not realize that your magic, your abilities, make you valuable. You are special, Nasir, so fucking special. Do not belittle yourself.”

“I can grow things and catch things on fire. And have small skill in daggers due to need to have protection,” Nasir scoffs, shaking his head. He feels fucking useless. “I am not warrior. No gladiator that Agron can trust to stand beside him in battle.”

“You forget that I was there when the vampires tried to assassinate Duro,” Naevia lowers her voice, “You cannot tell me that you did not protect them. You did so in your own way, but you stood defensive. I can still hear your screaming, the vampire above you. You are your own warrior in your own way. You are strong, Nasir. I have told you this before.”

“I want to be stronger though. I want to cut the head off a man like Crixus can, to go into battle and come back victorious,” Nasir sighs deeply, shaking his head. “How can I stand Agron’s equal if I cannot even do that?”

The aforementioned man suddenly appears, Yasmina perched on Crixus’ hip. It's hard to tell that underneath the flower guard and soft fatherly smile, that Crixus is a warrior. One of the best fighters in the army - both a killer and a lover. There have been so many songs and stories told of the trio – Spartacus, Agron, and Crixus – victorious in battles and tournaments and hunting trips. They always come back, bloody and warm from the kill, the glory of Alptraum. Nasir cannot help but feel pale and useless in comparison, the only triumph he has given these people, his royal line, is sleeping soundly in his crib upstairs, watched closely by Chadara and Bagoas. 

"Are you ready to train with a sword now, majesty?" Crixus asks, handing his daughter over to his wife. "It is not an easy task to switch weapons, but with enough practice, we may make some ground today."

Nasir glances at Naevia, a small flicker of insecurity crossing his face. When Agron and him had discussed this, with Spartacus there, it had seemed necessary. Nasir always has guards around him, always has someone in the room at all times, but there may come a time when there is no one. Would it not be better for Nasir to have the skill then not? But now, standing next to Crixus with his wide chest and his wild eyes, it seems as if Nasir will never reach past novice. 

"When you teach me," Nasir asks softly, handing Yasmina a new bunch of flowers. She delightedly wiggles, beginning to weave the small buds into Naevia’s braids, "will you show me how to slit a man's throat without him noticing?"

"And break his neck. And cleave it off as well," Crixus nods, picking up two practice swords. He hands one over, grinning a little, "And when it becomes easy, we will move onto the next weapon until you are a master of all. Agron has given his order to teach you what you wish to learn."

"I want to be able to protect my family," Nasir murmurs, wrapping his fist around the hilt of the sword. "I want to be stronger, strong enough that I am equal to all of you. To be worthy of my title."

"Well then," Crixus sinks into a pose, sword at the ready, "let us begin."

\- - - 

Agron strokes his fingers through Malik's curls, smoothing the black strands away from his forehead and pressing a kiss there. He's got a tiny furrow to his brow, gumming at his fist as he stares up at his father, big green eyes darting around. From this angle, he can't see Nasir but can hear him, confused by the lack of sight. 

"I'm tired of these stone walls," Nasir sighs, fiddling with latching his thicker tunic over him. "And the constant knocking." 

Agron glances over at the bedroom door, waits to hear the footsteps that thankfully don't echo down the hall. Malik seems to pause too, letting out a delighted giggle when Agron taps a finger to his nose. 

"No one wants to bother us today," He coos down at his son, "I told them all to fuck off.”

Malik waves his arms, stretching long and tight in Agron's grasp, before reaching for his face. He gently pats Agron's grinning cheek, almost as if he's trying to poke his dimple. It only makes them deepen as Agron shakes his head, pecking Malik's forehead. 

"Don't tell him that," Nasir snips, finally finishing dressing and slipping his cloak on. "The last thing we need is for Malik’s first word to be that.”

“What? Fuck?” Agron’s smirk turns lewd, eyes trailing over Nasir’s body. “Was that an offer?”

"Agron!" Nasir cries, jaw dropping as he moves towards the pair. He's holding a large, gray fur blanket, tinged with stripes of gray and black. 

"It's not like he understands us," Agron rolls his eyes, bouncing Malik, "Isn't that right baby? You have no idea what I’m saying. I could tell you anything and you'd just be the happiest baby in the whole world."

Malik grins up at him, delighted at having all of Agron's attention as they sway back and forth. He lets out a peal of high pitched glee as Nasir finally comes into his sight, brow still furrowed but grinning. Instinctively, Malik reaches for Nasir's hair, having his hand gently batted away.

"No hair pulling today, please." Nasir sings, shaking his head. 

"Well, for him. I make no promises." Agron hands the baby over, helps Nasir wrap him completely up in the soft wolf down of the blanket. 

"You are horrible." 

Nasir tries not to smile, blush on his cheeks as he nuzzles his nose along Malik's temple. The baby answers with a soft whine, puppy-like and high, as he tries to rub his nose on Nasir's throat. It's instinctual - trying to scent his parents to claim them as his. 

"Come on," Nasir chirps, allowing Malik to grab onto one of his necklaces, waving the golden chain back and forth, "We're going to go on a walk in the garden! Get out of this prison we call a house."

 

Nasir leads them down the backstairs, avoiding the grand staircase out front. It forces them to squeeze by servants quickly accessing the different floors, but it also allows them to avoid the court and the nobles who always seem to find them at the worst time. 

"You know," Agron can't help the exasperation in his voice as they reach the backdoor, pulling it open for his husband. “if you wanted, we could always sneak away for the day. Go down to the markets. If we covered up a little, no one would recognize us.”

“We could never do that. Laeta would die.” Nasir scoffs, glancing up at his husband. “We would hear her screaming before we even left the palace gates.”

“Not if she didn’t find out.” Agron laughs, tugging a strand of Nasir’s hair lightly. “You think she could scream at me?”

"You know what I mean." Nasir slips out into the cloudy afternoon, carefully making his way down the steps and into the frozen garden. Agron lingers behind him, hands out incase Nasir slips on the ice.

Glancing up, Agron watches as the clouds stir, a few stray pieces of white breaking through and spinning out into the air. It's not windy, but the flakes seem to naturally gravitate towards Nasir, clinging to his hair, and in turn Malik's own nest of curls - the only characteristic he gets from Duro. 

"It's snowing again," Nasir grumbles, bouncing Malik a little as they make their way down one long stretch of the garden. "It's never going to get warm again."

"Yes it will," Agron comforts, wrapping his arms around Nasir from behind, pulling them both under the flaps of his cloak, wrapping them up tightly, "besides, I thought you liked the snow.”

“I miss the sun on my face.” Nasir confesses, tilting his head back into the pale, cruel rays of the winter light. “The warm grass on my bare skin, the trees calling above me.”

“It will not be too long before we return to our summer house,” Agron presses a kiss gently to Nasir’s upturned mouth, “Safe and warm within our tent once more.”

Nasir tilts his head to the side, dragging his nose along the tendon of Agron's neck, nuzzling into him. He's done it ever since becoming pregnant, and Agron likes to think it's the little bit of wolf that stayed in Nasir, the one that wants to keep them together, to claim one another. Below them, Malik sighs deeply, eyes falling closed at the serenity of having both of his parents this close. He doesn't even wake when snowflakes land on his cheeks, clinging to his long eyelashes.

\- - - 

Even with snow piled high on the ground, Pietros and Nasir manage to coax flowers to push through and bloom. The walkway of the gardens, cleared by diligent guards and servants with long flat pieces of metal, is lined on either side with large pink hydrangeas. Across the flat plans, dusty roses, baby pink tulips, and burgundy chrysanthemums lay against the frozen ice, little bursts of color to draw the eye. 

Tall torches have been stationed around the space, the flames on top giving off a supernatural heat that seems to be enchanted not to touch the ice below it. Even with the snow, the whole garden seems warmer than it should. Chairs have been set in rows leading up to a large gazebo, the poles wrapped in thick ribbons of gold and maroon. It's very elaborate and beautiful, the guests awing and ooing over every detail, even down to the small bunches of holly and fir given out to be tossed when the couple exits. 

Agron stands just on the step of the gazebo, looking tall and magnificent in his thick fur cloak, the mahogany colored fur a reminder of Agron's wolf's own coat. His crown is one of the more elaborate he owns, twisting gold and rubies that build on his head in five spikes, the center holding an engraved moon. It matches the carved leather of his armor, the stately kind that is unfit for battle but more ornamental. As king, he is the highest authority in the land to grant nuptials, but in honesty, he was over joyed when Spartacus asked. 

Crixus and Naevia stand on opposite sides of the platform, smiling at one another. Dressed in burgundy, Naevia's dress is thin and silk, the fabric shimmering gold in some light. Her hair has been intricately braided, strands of flowers and holly dressed into the strands. Crixus has been stripped from his armor, instead wearing an intricately embroidered tunic, an ornamental sword clasped at his hip. 

The crowd that has gathered instantly falls silent when Nasir arrives, all of the standing to bow low, disregarding the state of the snow under them. Dressed in his own thick, wolf fur cloak, the white downy billows behind him as he makes his way up the aisle. There is no denying his beauty, not his status, as Nasir's whole outfit shimmers in the flamed light. Carefully designed straps crisscross over his chest, hooking into long, loose pants. The whole outfit is sheer, his bronze skin outlined in the golden light highlighting the smoothness of his stomach, the long lines of his legs ending in thick boots. Glitter and gems have been hand sown on, gathering to cover him across his hips, dazzling down into a pattern of small star bursts at his feet. 

Agron's throat clicks audibly as Nasir reaches his appointed place, front row and to the right. In his arms, Malik is wrapped in a blanket of the same fabric as Nasir's clothes, gold and light shimmering off of him as if he's been swaddled in the night sky. To Nasir's left, dressed in a poufy gown of lilac and violet, Yasmina clings to the edge of Nasir's cloak, nuzzling into the fabric when they sit. She seems perfectly content, reaching over to gently pet the ends of Nasir's long hair, babbling some at them. Malik seems to want to answer her, giving a short delighted cry, but Yasmina rolls her eyes at him, clearly unimpressed. It makes Nasir laugh, opening his cloak wider for Yasmina to sit inside, blocking out the cold. 

Duro wiggles his fingers in front of Malik, features pulling back obtusely. It's his attempt to get the prince to laugh, a thing he is still a little too young for, but Malik gurgles loudly, one tan arm slipping out from the folds of his blanket. Duro lets him wrap his tiny fist around one of Duro's fingers, shaking it gently. 

Watching them, Agron can't help the flicker of warmth growing in his chest, a self-indulgent curl of happiness and glee. He can see their future in this moment, the prospect of life. Little princes and princesses with shiny black curls and tan skin, running through the castle halls, laughter filling to the very ceilings. There would be feasts and holidays spent sprawled on thick carpets, opening presents and sipping cider from big, steaming cups.

Seeming to sense Agron's eyes on him, Nasir slowly glances up from where he's whispering to Yasmina, a pretty pink spreading over his cheeks when he notices Agron's full grin. Unable to help himself, Nasir smiles in reply, body swaying as he rocks Malik, hand keeping a steady beat on his back. 

"Announcing Lord Spartacus and Lady Mira." Barca's voice booms from the back of the gathering, pulling back the billowing white curtains with Auctus.

The couple is impeccable, beautiful in their togetherness and completion. It's obvious they're in love, arms looped together as they make their way down the aisle, feet crushing on new snow and petals. Around Spartacus' head, a crown of fir and ivy is woven, the greens dark and lush. It reflects the small wolves and forest pattern on his tunic, the breast latched with a dozen golden buttons. 

Mira's dress is simple and elegant, white satin cut low in the front to a simple crystal design that wraps around her waist. A stole of soft white rabbit’s fur is tied around her shoulders to fight the chill, a burgundy ribbon keeping it in place. Pietros and Nasir worked for a while weaving flowers and holly into her long hair, creating a crown of holly and sage.

"Your highness." 

When they reach the gazebo, both Spartacus and Mira bend their knees, bowing low to the ground.

"Lord Spartacus. Lady Mira."

Agron bows his head in consideration, dimples denting his cheeks as he tries to refrain his grin. He's known both Spartacus and Mira since childhood, Spartacus since his birth, and he could not be any happier at this union. After so many years, it seems only fitting that Agron is the one to finally officiate their marriage. 

"We present ourselves to your judgement and consideration for the joining of our two houses and families under matrimony."

"And do you both understand that the bond you request is life long and unbreakable, that it transcends the needs of yourselves, and brings together two into one?" Agron asks, voice grim and serious. He eyes both of his friends, heart filling with excitement 

"We do." Mira answers this time, freckled face looking lovely as she turns her face up to look at Agron. 

"Then I give my blessing." Agron smiles down at the couple before staring out to address the crowd. 

"My good people, we are gathered here to rejoice in the bringing together of two lives. No other unity is as complex or as everlasting."

Agron pauses for a moment, lets the words saturate the air before continuing. He wants this promise to resonate, to stick in the minds of their closest friends and family gathered here. 

"Spartacus and Mira represent a life of compassion, heart, determination, and fierce temperament not found in any other couple I know. Their unity is a powerful and sacred thing, and is the highest form of honor they will ever know."

Spartacus and Mira stare adoringly at each other, the edges of Spartacus' eyes damp with unshed tears. They've forgone the tradition of keeping their heads bowed before the king, instead they seem unable to help themselves. 

Above them, Agron locks gazes with Nasir again, heart full and warm as he continues his words. Below him, Spartacus slices his palm and Mira does the same, joining hands to middle the blood between. Crixus and Naevia step forward to tie their wrists in thick, braided cord. 

"With this bond, you are now part of one another. One in the eyes of the moon and stars. No life nor hardship will ever separate you. No grief. This bond is as eternal as the ocean and land forever meeting in the vast eternity of life."

Nasir presses his fingers to his mouth, subtly offering Agron a kiss through the air. He remembers these vows, these promises, from his own wedding. It seems so long ago that Nasir had stood on that scorched grass and given his life, his everything, over to Agron. He had been so scared, so surprised when Agron’s mouth had pressed against his, when hands once coated in blood touched him with a tenderness that no one had ever shown Nasir. 

"This vow cannot be unraveled, forged by blood and this promise. Do you swear it?"

Agron barely says the words before Spartacus is speaking up, swearing his life to Mira, and her own echoing response. Taking the rope from around their hands, Agron motions and Naevia and Crixus step forward again, this time with rings. 

"This cord and these vows will be honored and remembered by the exchanging of rings - symbols of the continuous circle of life. You will wear these beacons as a sign of your continued path together."

Spartacus and Mira both take turns slipping on each other's rings, the silver shimmering in its place now. Kissing the place where the diamond ring now resides, Spartacus cannot stop the grin from spreading off his face as Agron's own grows so much wider. 

"Good people of Alptra, I now present to you Lord Spartacus and Lady Mira, Duke and Duchess of the Thrastian territory, and right hand to the king."

Applauding, the crowd breaks out in cheers, people standing and calling out their excitement and joy. It only grows when Spartacus stands up with Mira, turning them both to wave and make their way through the crowd. They’re both radiant, eyes gleaming and bright. A thousands of petals begin to fall from the sky, tossed by hands and magically appearing, glitter and lights shimmering around them.

Stepping down from his dais, Agron makes his way over to his family, arms out stretched. Duro hugs him first, a loud and brotherly clap to the back as Duro prattles on about how this wedding is a long time coming. Agron turns away with a grin and an easy push, stooping to kiss Nasir’s forehead, easing Malik out of his arms. Glitter cascades from his blanket, but Agron doesn’t seem concerned, instead lifting Malik up to pepper quick and nuzzling kisses to his face and belly. Shrieking delightedly, Malik presses both of his cubby palms to Agron’s cheek, demanding his father’s full attention. Agron willingly gives it, cooing down at his son, soft little praises and yips.

Beside them, Naevia is attempting to ease Yasmina out from under Nasir’s cloak, a feat made harder by the little girl’s death grip on the fur. It also appears she likes the glitter, as her fingers keep petting down Nasir’s calf, making distressed little noises the further away she gets. She lets out a full snarl when Naevia lifts her up, wrinkled face turning to tears a moment later when she realizes she’s lost the battle.

“Nas! Nas!” She wails, one little arm stretched out behind her “No, no, no!”

“Miss Yasmina,” Nasir tuts, reaching over to gently tap the tip of his finger to her nose. The baby follows the motion, going cross eyed before sniffling. “None of that. Warriors don’t cry. Where is my warrior princess?”

“You’ll see Uncle Nasir soon enough. We’re going to Aunt Mira’s party, remember?” Naevia bounces Yasmina on her hip, attempting to soothe her. 

“No. I go now.” Yasmina kicks her legs a little, frustrated and miserable. 

“I’ve got to take care of Malik first, make sure he gets fed and has a nap. I’m sure you’re sleepy too, right? You want to go lay down for a while and then we can go to the party?” Nasir asks, sharing a grin with Naevia when Yasmina rolls her eyes at the mention of the prince. 

“No.” Sighing dramatically, Yasmina wraps her tiny arms around Naevia, curling one fist close to her face so she can nibble at the cuff of her dress. “Now.”

Reaching out his hand, Nasir slowly uncurls his fingers to reveal a small, white flower, the edges of its petals ombred into a light yellow. He shows the bud to Yasmina, lets her touch it, before gently tucking it into a curl right behind her small ear. 

“Here, I promise I will see you in just a little while. You need to be good for your mommy though, okay? If you’re good, I’ll give you a surprise. I’ll make you whatever you want, alright?” Yasmina is too young to really understand all the words, but she does lower her fist to flash a quick grin at her uncle, tears no longer threating in her eyes. 

“You spoil her,” Naevia shakes her head, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to Nasir’s cheek.

“It’s practice.” Nasir laughs loudly, shrugging his shoulders. “Besides, every little girl deserves that aunt or uncle that gives her things. You know the blacksmith is almost done with her sword.”

“Crixus will be thrilled.” Naevia pats his shoulder. “We’ll see you later.” She turns to find her husband in the crowd, Yasmina waving over her shoulder the whole way. 

Carefully, two arms slowly slide around Nasir’s waist from behind, a warm chest pressing against his shoulder blades. Agron kisses slow and wet just under his ear, nuzzling there and blowing across the mark to make Nasir shiver. “You really have a handle on this whole baby thing.”

“Surprising considering that I’m the youngest in my family.” Nasir laces their fingers together over his stomach, leaning his head back on Agron’s shoulder. "Yasmina is wonderful though. They've already got her defensive training; did you know? Can you imagine, training a one-year-old to wrestle?"

"I'm not surprised." Agron grumbles. Nasir can tell he's rolling his eyes even without looking at him. "I'm pretty sure he tried to give her a dagger on the day she was born. Should I start teaching Malik self-defense? Where to stab a man to make sure he dies quickly?"

"I think we should wait until he can at least lift his head up on his own." Nasir looks up at Agron, presses his mouth against his jaw in a gentle kiss. He stays there for a moment, nuzzling against the rough burn of stubble, inhaling Agron’s scent. Sometimes it still blind sides Nasir, how he can love Agron so much, how it fills him up, burning warm light. "You looked really happy up there, you know. I could tell you were thrilled.”

“I’ve known then both for years, Spartacus since birth really. He was assigned to be my body guard around the time I turned four. He wasn't to the level of battling he is now, but he did more for me than Gerulf ever did. And Mira was part of my court. It was kind of love at first fight for them, I think. They have been together so long, it’s amazing that they asked me to officiate their joining.” Agron sighs, nostalgia creeping into his voice. “Even when Gerulf had that brief moment of trying to betroth Mira and I, I always knew that her and Spartacus were meant to be together. Childhood sweethearts and everything.”

“They are very lucky, to have found love so early and kept it." Nasir scoffs a little, shaking his head. "I... I honestly cannot imagine growing up knowing you already are in love with someone. That was never part of the Pythonissan culture. We don’t fall in love.”

"I guess for them, and for Naevia and Crixus, they just knew. It was slow, probably, over years of us growing up together, training together, basically spending every moment around one another. They were part of my household, like Chadara and Diona are part of yours." Agron takes a deep breath, shaking his head so his stubble drags against the side of Nasir's neck. "We all just knew it was how it was going to be."

"And you? Did you ever fall in love?" Musing, Nasir turns in Agron’s arms, leaning into him. He can see out of the corner of his eye that Duro has Malik, cooing down at the baby while both Auctus and Barca pull faces at the prince. Pietros stands nearby, chatting with a few of the nobles. It is a strange family that they’ve created, but it is theirs. Agron and Nasir have both chosen this life.

"Some beautiful prince or perhaps a foreign diplomat’s son? Spent a summer running around the woods?" Nasir laughs, but there is honest curiosity.

"A beautiful prince?" Agron grins, staring off into the crowd for a moment. "There was one. He wasn't very fond of me at first though."

"Oh?" Nasir raises an eyebrow, voice hinging just slightly on the sharp edge of jealousy. 

"No, he was too smart, too kind. I think he thought I was a brute." Agron teases, tucking a strand of hair behind Nasir's ear. "Over time though..."

Nasir purses his lips, attempting to hide his scowl as Agron trails off. "Over time what?"

"Well, I think I grew on him. At least, him being pregnant helped." Agron dodges Nasir's rough smack, letting the blow land on his shoulder instead. 

"You are-" Nasir begins, shaking his head. He has some rebuttal, some mean jab, but Agron silences him by kissing him. Wrapping his arms around Nasir's waist, Agron lifts him a few inches off the ground, toes barely touching the snow. 

"You know it has only ever been you." Agron murmurs, nuzzling against Nasir's nose. 

"You are too." Nasir whispers, stay close so that his lips ghost against Agron's. He threads his fingers through Agron's hair, being careful not to disturb his crown, but caressing there. 

"I wanted to-" Agron begins to say, thought cut off as Malik suddenly lets out a sharp cry. 

Both kings turn instantly. The quiet calm moment from before shattered as Malik lets out a frustrated whine. Duro is holding the babe, blanket having fell open at Malik kicking his legs. It takes them a moment to realize what's wrong, as Malik attempts to roll onto his side, pressing his face towards Duro's chest. Auctus and Barca are laughing too hard to say anything, but Duro's shocked face explains it all. 

"Wh-What is he doing?" Duro asks, horrified. “Hey, hey, hey!”

"He's hungry, you dumb shit.” Agron’s laughter rings out loud and boisterous in the small gathering, tilting his head back. 

“But I’m not-I can’t-Nasir!” Duro motions with his head towards the king and then down towards the prince.

“He must think your chest is as soft as mine,” Nasir snips, glancing down his own body before raising an eyebrow at Duro’s. “I don’t see it.”

“I do not have…have…have those!” Duro sputters, moving Malik higher so he can stop trying to mouth at him. Instead, he holds his arms out straight, elbows locked. 

“For fuck’s sake!” Agron chastises, mouth curving down into a scowl. “Be fucking careful you shit!" 

Agron is quick to pluck Malik out of the rickety hold, curling his son close against him. Malik whines again, fists curling at his face and beginning to cry. Recognizing who is holding him, Malik tries to crane his neck around to find Nasir, but when he can’t, he dissolves into a screaming cry that streaks his plump cheeks with tears, turning them an angry red. He attempts to turn towards Agron's chest, mouth puckered and forehead furrowing as he’s met with cool leather and armor instead of what he actually seeks. 

"Come on." Nasir soothes a hand through Malik's hair, drawing his attention with a soft hum. "It's too cold out here to feed him."

Agron keeps a hold of Malik, large arm supporting him as his opposite hand rubs soothing circles on his chest. The baby doesn’t stop fully crying, but he does quiet a little, recognizing the soft sounds and scent of both of his parents as they make their way back towards the castle. 

 

\- - - 

 

Ashur is careful to keep his body within the wide doorframe, ears trained to the sound of the guards shifting out in the hallway. They're two Pontas men and an Alptraum woman, silent except for the steady sound of their breathing. Ashur knows he doesn't have much time, fingers drumming impatient on his thigh, hyper aware of everything. 

Solonius' velvet slippers shuffle to Ashur's right; his shadow stretched and obtuse along the stone wall. Ashur barely can keep himself from rolling his eyes at the man, a hood of dark fur pulled up around his wrinkled face. It's more obvious than Ashur's careful slinking, slipping into the nearby parlor. 

"You're late." Ashur accuses, eyes narrowed and impatient. He knows that Nasir will be returning soon, either to lay the baby down for a nap or to check in on them. Ashur had been gently, but firmly banned from attending Spartacus and Mira's wedding. Nasir had delivered the news over food, blind to Agron's snarl over his shoulder. 

"Apologies. I was held up by the guards. It seems that they are thicker in these halls now that the prince has been born," Solonius reaches into his cloak, pulling a small roll of paper from within, follow closely by a velvet bag.

"Were you spotted?" Ashur asks roughly, yanking the scroll out of Solonius' hands. 

"Of course not." Glancing over his shoulder, Solonius leans into Ashur's space. ""Will this satisfy your master?"

Ashur's eyes quickly scan over the map, the path leading down from the mountains and into the waterway surrounding the city of Galena. There is a very small crack in the base of the castle, enough for someone to sneak in and cut the chain to the gate if they knew where to go. After that, it would be pandemonium as there would be no way to shut the castle from the intruders.

"It will do." Ashur rolls it up again, pressing it between his skin and his belt, hidden away in the folds of his clothes. “And the other item?”

“It’s pure,” Solonius shakes a small vial out of the bag into his palm, passing it over. “The woman who made it promises that all it takes is a suggestion to work.”

“We shall see.” Ashur shakes the bottle to see the glimmer of sickly green liquid inside. The potion, if it works, should be poisonous to work on Nasir, even with his magic. A spell to control and bind the person who took it, to make them weak.

"And our deal still stands?" Solonius isn't desperate, but there is a fear that is earnest and needy.

"You will have yours when my master gets his." Ashur confirms, leaning back out to glance down the hallway. There is a commotion happening further down, the sound of laughter and shouting, the guards sounding off one after another 'majesty' echoing down the hall. 

"Now fucking go and be careful not to be seen." 

Ashur doesn't bother to check that Solonius is retreating, knowing he isn't fucking stupid enough not to do as told. Instead, Ashur twists his features into the most convincing smile he can manage, moving from his hiding place and into clear view. He can see his brother walking down the hall, the gaggle of his house following close behind. A thousand shimmers of light bounce off the walls as he walks past the candles, Malik perched in his arms, cooing loudly. 

"Nasir," Ashur opens his arms, "You are a vision. Even the sun stares in envy at your beauty."

"Brother," Nasir grins wide, leaning forward to kiss Ashur’s cheek, bouncing Malik to sooth him when the baby inevitably starts fussing. “You are too kind. How do you fair?”

“I am well. And you? Was the ceremony fitting for such cherished friends?” Ashur wraps his arm around Nasir’s back and leads him forward into the suite. Behind him, the servants are quick to scatter, straightening the room and preparing for a quick midday meal. Pietros is obviously absent as Chadara gives soft but firm orders, her blond curls woven with a magenta ribbon. 

“It was beautiful,” Nasir smiles, unlatching his cloak and handing it off to Diona. He settles Malik down onto the floor, spreading a few toys around him as he sinks into a chair. It’s only when he’s fully seated that the exhaustion seems to seep in, his thin shoulders rolling forward. "Mira and Spartacus have been in love so long. It meant a lot to Agron to be able to officiate their wedding."

“I am sure it did,” Ashur nods, flashing a sharp smile down at his nephew. From under a nearby couch, Apep slowly appears, sliding across the floor in a slow life. He latches onto Malik the instant he gets onto the baby’s blanket, nuzzling his flat head against Malik’s cheek before lazily draping his tail around Malik’s leg. “I have no doubt that Agron is very loyal to his friends. They’ve had years of being together, bonding, growing up together seems to solidify people together. I’m sure that they all have been planning for this day for years.”

“As they should,” Nasir smiles, rubbing at his tired eyes. He’s careful not to smudge the dark kohl around them, tipping his head back to pop his neck. “Spartacus, Mira, Auctus, Crixus, Naevia, and Tove were all part of Agron’s court growing up.”

“I see.” Ashur slathers butter and honey on a piece of bread, slowly biting into it before saying. “It must have been hard on you then, coming here, trying to fit in. So far away from Father and the rest of our people.”

“I suppose,” Nasir shrugs, picking at his own food. “There was a lot of confusion to begin with. I don’t think that they really knew what Pietros and I were or where we came from. Sometimes still, I will create something or light candles from across the room, and Agron will get this expression on his face.” Nasir touches his own cheek, a faint, tired smile there. “It is as if he cannot believe that I am real.”

“Until Father sold you to them, I doubt he knew you were.” Ashur draws Nasir’s attention back to him. “What do these people know about us? Our kind? They worship the moon and men that can turn into beasts. We are from the sun. Our gods are creators of life, of magic, not kept in the darkness. You must know that you will never have to be like them.”

“Yeah,” Nasir sighs softly, dragging his nail down the side of his tea cup. Ashur has been careful to lather the melancholy on slowly, drag Nasir’s thoughts down, poison every happy moment with just a hint of wrong. 

"I am sorry I did not see your own wedding though. Was it as beautiful?” 

Ashur sits before Nasir, accepting a small plate of bread and fruit. He knows that Nasir is back to not eating meat, though the other Alptra around him are quick to divvy up the serving. It is what Ashur does, always observing and calculating the relationships between these people, their interactions. 

“I was terrified.” Nasir scoffs a little, murmuring his thanks to Diona when she hands him his own plate. “I feel as if it were a lifetime ago. I can barely remember walking down the aisle, all the people there watching. I just kept my eyes on Agron. I couldn’t look away from him, even when we joined blood, I felt so captured, defenseless. I knew it was happening, but it felt as if it were only-” Nasir trails off, pressing his fingertips to his mouth. 

Ashur considers his brother for a moment, watching the smooth features of Nasir’s face. He’s half turned towards the frosted window, the soft light only seeming to highlight the cut of his brow bone, the curve of his cheeks. A tiny pain digs into his side, the sickening bubble of guilt. Ashur cannot help but wonder what their life would have been like if Ashur had been born with magic, if Kallistos had loved Ashur as much as he loves Nasir, if they had been brothers instead of enemies.

“It is hard to become someone’s property so young.” Ashur reaches across the table, taking Nasir’s hand in his own. “You have been strong though, little brother. Stronger than most in your position.”

“I had to be.” Nasir drags his thumb across Ashur’s knuckles. “It was either become strong or die. I chose life.”

“Life is cruel like that sometimes.” Ashur agrees, a deep sigh resonating from his chest. “I am sorry you’ve had to suffer at these animal’s hands though. I am sorry your husband still holds you at arm’s length, that he tries to change you, to mold you into his moon goddess. It is not fair to hold you to such heights when he will not open up his life to you. Agron cannot accept you for who you are, but instead, wants to change it.”

“I do not think-“ Nasir begins, face wrinkling in displeasure. 

“The way he keeps you captive in this wolf painted room. The charm around your neck. Your crown does not represent a snake or our people, but instead a moon is branded upon you. Agron loves your magic because it is unique and you are powerful. He knows that his friends and his allies envy him because he owns you.” Ashur spits the words, anger flaring. “He has no right. Your mother would be horrified if she were alive to see you like this, a fucking toy to an overly large child.”

“Please, brother, stop.” Nasir has dropped his gaze out into the snowy window, eyes blinking slowly, moist at the corners. He does not say anything else, food forgotten on the table, but instead stays motionless – lost in thought. It is not until sometime later that he reaches for his cup, unsuspecting and blind to the potion mixed within its contents. 

\- - - 

Mira and Spartacus' reception is held in the Grand Hall, a sprawling room of mahogany wood, gold, and thick tapestries. It is the only space large enough to fit the whole Alptraum royal court as well as the visiting royalty here for Malik's namesake games. Instead of fitting large tables and benches together though, the room has been decadently covered in thick rugs, blankets, and overstuffed pillows that fit grown men laying down across them. Cedar and pine have been thrown in with the fires, creating a thick and welcoming atmosphere to the relaxed space. Servants move around with silent, velvet covered steps, heavily laden down with candied meats, breads, fruit, and intricately designed pastries. 

The happy couple sits right of the royals, propped up on a small mound of pillows and furs, surrounded by brightly wrapped packages and heavy trays of wine and delicacies. It is Alptraum tradition for the visiting families and the court to pay homage to the newly married couple, especially considering Spartacus' position as right hand of the king, and bells signaling good fortune often ring. 

Agron is situated to their side, propped up on a collection of small cushions with his royal cloak spread around him. He's flanked by Duro and Tove on one side, the King from Taurant on the other. They make a strange collection of men, especially considering Malik's position in the crook of Agron's arm, happily drooling over a soft, stuffed moon. 

The Taurant people are similar to the Alptraum in a number of ways. They are descendants from animals, their people taking on the characteristics of bulls and cows, though it is not a hidden or controllable trait. Some showcase their ancestry by large, curved horns protruding from foreheads, soft down covered ears, drooping from between thickly braided hair, calf legs instead of human. Their features are dark, deeply tanned skin with hair usually coiled in braids or thick dreads adorned with magnificently carved beads, hoops, and metal. Part of their culture includes the wearing of ancestry on their skin, a thing that the Taurant people practice by the carefully carved and scared patterns they place on their skin. Each person's tells their history included with their families, a living almanac of life. 

King Tenkamenin is a man of staggering size, standing nearly a half foot taller than Agron, he gains even more stature by the two thick, yellowed horns curved up from the front of his skull and back towards the top of his head. He's bare chested, the cut of his body only allowing for the sheer magnitude of his size. Dressed in traditional Taurant colors of red, yellow, and orange, a skirt of thick canvas and linen is tied around his waist in a complicated knot, a large emblem of a bull hanging from around his neck. He had given Agron a thousand slaughtered boars as a gift for the birth of his first heir, and promised to give a thousand more when he is given the opportunity to meet Agron's new husband.

"Your son gnaws on that toy as if he is a great wolf already," Tenkamenin laughs, gently tugging on the end of Malik's moon. The prince stares at the king for a moment, turning his attention to Agron as if gauging his reaction, before very pointedly tugging his toy back towards himself. It earns another laugh from Tenkamenin, the sound rich and deep in his throat. "I can see he takes after you. Look at that frown.”

“Unfortunately, I fear he will get all of my bad habits,” Agron bounces Malik a little, getting a shrieked laugh from the baby before he sinks his gums back around the plush toy. “Hopefully though, he’ll develop all of Nasir’s good ones and it will even out.”

“Ah, your magical husband whom I have only heard rumors of,” Tenkamenin muses, reaching towards a servant to snatch a few grapes. “I am glad to hear he has recovered from his long and laborious pregnancy. Tell me, does your son also show sign of magic or do you think he will follow in your family’s tradition?”

“He is showing tendencies towards having the wolf inside of him," Agron nods, smoothing his fingers through Malik's curls. "An affinity for biting and scent marking, though I think it will take some more time before we know for sure. Duro did not show the skill until he was nearly six."

“I would not be concerned. My oldest boy, Helio, did not grow his horns until he could walk, and then another two years before they grew to full length.” Tenkamenin points to where a tall, dark skinned teen is currently dancing with Pietros. Between his tightly woven braids, two pitch black horns curve up from his forehead. 

“He’s eighteen this year, isn’t he?” Agron asks, nodding with Tenkamenin’s own head. “Seems like few years have gone by since his birth. We are old men now.”

"I stand five years your senior and I am not yet old. You are just beginning your reign and have done well for yourself, Agron," Tenkamenin smiles warmly, the dark corners of his eyes crinkling. "A kingdom before you, an heir to carry your legacy, and a partner to share the burden of the crown.”

“I am blessed above all men,” Agron agrees, mind wandering for just a moment to the quiet moment Nasir and him had shared before coming down to the party. Of Agron helping Nasir back into his clothes, the soft snores of Malik laid out on a nearby couch, stomach full of milk and content. Nasir’s soft words of happiness towards the newly married couple, the press of his body against Agron’s, warm and intimate in its innocence. He had never dreamed that he would be this lucky, that his father’s dark shadow would be deep underground and he would stand happy and fulfilled with the prospect of a family.

“A blessing born out of sorrow. I am sorry for the passing of your father,” Tenkamenin’s hand is warm when he presses his palm to Agron’s thigh, “but I am glad for your assentation to the throne. You too have always been a fitting heir."

His words are kind, but not without mission. This is the way of royalty now, and Agron knows it. He has true feelings of friendship towards Tenkamenin, having spent some time in the Taurant’s court as a teenager. Only a few years separate them, though the Bull King ascended the throne at ten years ago, the product of a dueling father that did not know his own limitations. Regardless of their kindness or generosity to allowing Agron to visit, Gerulf never trusted these people. He found this grotesque in their forms, their affinity for body modification. Agron remembers younger summers going to visit their court, training and sparring with Tenkamenin and his younger brothers, seeing them for the men that they are and not the beast that resides inside of them. 

"My father was a great king,” Agron finds the lie easy enough to slip off his tongue, “but his ways are not my ways. Alptra is changing, evolving to be a better nation.” 

Tenkamenin doesn’t say anything, just hums his agreeance. The ways of alliances and partnerships has never come easy to him, and though Agron has then tact and the careful consideration of what he’s about to say, he knows this is not his forte. Spartacus is the weaver of words, the one talented in taming the tongue just long enough for when it should strike. Agron tries to remember those long conversations they have had, growing up in the palace, watching Gerulf spoil the relations with diplomats because he could not control his temper. 

“With our new era, I aim to rekindle loyalty and alliances between our neighboring countries. The treaty of friendship between Alptra and Taurant has been long forgotten and pushed to the side. I would see it rekindle with a hundred flames," Agron adorns his best kingly smile. In his arms, Malik hums quietly to himself, forgetting his toy for a moment to gum at Agron’s fingers. 

Tenkamenin eyes the king thoughtfully chewing on a large hunk of meat before saying, “You would have us form an alliance? Why?”

“I see no reason why we shouldn’t. Alptra and Taurant share a long border. We have known each other for years,” Agron shrugs lightly, some of his kingly poise slipping. “Is there anything stopping us from aligning our forces? We have the stronger tactical military, but you have better foot soldiers. Your resources are more plentiful, but we have the coast line for imports. Our legacy is cemented in our lines.”

“Gerulf was not too keen or eager to call us friend. If I remember correctly, he was not interested in my father’s or my own reign, labeling us _ironically_ too beastly to have control of our country.” Tenkamenin raises a knowing eyebrow at Agron, “In fact, I remember our betrothal being over even before the ink was dry on the contract. Some reason about not mixing blood.”

“You and I both know that our courtship, let along our marriage, would have been an utter disaster. And what heirs would come of it? You could not bear me a son, nor me one for you.” Agron laughs, shaking his head. “Can you honestly say that you would rather have me by your side than Gharma?”

“No.” Tenkamenin snorts, the sound resonating more bull like than human. There is a thick gold ring through his flared nostrils, the band carved with small triangles. “What a nightmare. I doubt you could handle all the political bullshit that she has had to endure. You would have slaughtered my whole court years ago.”

“You would think your court would be more keen to accept someone who literally grew up in the palace.” Agron replies, “But others judge that in which they don’t understand. My own people took time to warm to Nasir, and some still eye us as an unlikely pair, even after he has proven himself time and time again.”

“Fuck them,” Tenkamenin scoffs roughly, waving his hand. “We are better men than our fathers. Our wives and husbands wiser, stronger. I would have us forge that alliance, Wolf King, and see our houses united again.”

“A wise choice,” Agron grins, raising his hand for a glass of wine. “Let us drink on it. To renewed friendship.”

“And to family – both old and new.” 

Tenkamenin taps Malik’s stomach to get the baby to giggle, earning a rare grin and wiggle from the small prince. Malik is not always so forthcoming with pleasantries – something he seems to have learned from his father. The kings click the gold together before draining their goblets, a sign of good faith and promise. The wine is thick and heady, a winter wine made of bitter berries and honey. It coats the tongue and down, almost closer to syrup than a liquid, but it goes down easier over time. Both kings have already drunk plenty.

Amused, Tenkamenin pats his hand on Agron’s thigh. “We did have some good times though, didn’t we? That summer you came to visit. Do you remember hunting in that forest to the west of our castle?”

“Fuck, that was so long ago!” Agron laughs, shaking his head. It all feels blurry, like a dream through the fog of wine. “Running around pretending to be some mighty warrior come to save a kingdom from some ferocious beast. I nearly broke my arm swinging over that creek. Your father was furious when we came back covered in mud.”

“By the time you were fourteen, you were a mighty warrior. Do not humble yourself to me. I know all about all the monsters you have slaughtered in your lifetime.” Tenkamenin teases, the merriment of the room only adding to the conversation. “Conqueror of terrible beasts and the hearts of bed servants everywhere.”

“Bed servants? I have never-“Agron scoffs, adjusting Malik so he won’t be as jostled by his father’s laughter. 

“Never? Was I not there?” Tenkamenin raises a knowing eyebrow, “Sneaking off into forgotten parlors and dusty tapestries. All those pretty boys from Lenora who came to serve as bed servants in my father’s castle. All of them fell on their knees for you, ringed hands wrapped around your cock. They used to follow you around as if you selecting one was some blessing upon them.”

“You make me sound like a common whore,” Agron scoffs, relaxing back against his pillows. Across his chest, Malik lazily gums at one of his leather cords, sucking the bead into his mouth. “We were boys, growing boys at that. Do not think I have forgotten you crawling into my bed either.”

Tenkamenin tuts, shaking his head. “I was the prince. I was only doing my duty to keep the foreigner happy.”

“Was that all?” Agron is all mocking and amusement. “Or was that just the excuse for the first time, not the times that followed?”

Rolling his eyes, Tenkamenin again pats Agron’s thigh, this time rougher and accompanied by a tight squeeze. He leans closer to speak, as if the secret of his words will carry around the already uproariously loud room. 

“As if you need me to tell you of the magnificence of your cock.”

Agron falls back against his pillow with a roar of laughter, head thrown back. The sound is loud, boisterous, seems to echo over the hall and draws the eye of those sitting nearest to him, happy that their king is so. The laughter delights Malik to no end, seeing his father so happy, shrieking in response to the sound, waving a chubby fist.

“Hey little man,” Agron lifts Malik up towards him, kissing his plump cheek with a wet smack. “You think that’s funny, huh? You laughing at your old man?”

Tenkamenin rolls his eyes again, shaking his head. “I think he is overjoyed at any happiness you have. Babies have that charm.”

“No. Malik is just happy all of the time, no matter what.” Agron smiles down at Malik, dimples denting his cheek as he makes some little hums with his mouth, sound half human and half wolf. Malik tilts his head to the side when hears it, whining high and needy. It’s almost as if he’s trying to answer him, not yet mastering the tone. 

“He seems very fond of you.” Tenkamenin means the words kindly, though there is a something tinged along them. “I have no idea why.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he’s just caught on to Nasir’s fondness of me.” Agron blows a quick raspberry to Malik’s cheek, delighting the baby again. 

“Where’s your Baba?” Agron asks the babe, petting his fingers through Malik’s hair. His tone is light, cooing down at the prince as Malik happily gums at his fingers, big eyes tracking all over Agron’s face. At the mention of Nasir, Malik’s whole body wiggles, legs kicking excitedly. “Your baba was supposed to be down here a while ago. Should we go find him?”

Agron doesn’t get a chance to finish his questions as at that moment, the hall doors open wide and the spoken of royal slips inside. He’s taken off his wolf fur cloak, the candlelight reflection off of his outfit like a million golden rays of sunlight, like a statue brought to life. The effect is startling and mesmerizing, people turning to stare and bow, watching as Nasir pads barefoot across the floor. He has never looked more regal, more elegant as the dancing crowd parts to let him through.

“Speak of,” Agron mutters, struck dumb at the vision of his husband stepping over thick carpets and pillows, heavily jeweled bracelets chiming like small bells around him, “and he shall appear.”

“That is no devil,” Tenkamenin mutters, losing some of his kingly stature as he follows Agron up into standing, more scrambling than pose.

Ascending the few short steps up to where the royal family lounges, Nasir smiles pretty and small at Agron, eyes flickering towards Tenkamenin and then back. The move is uncertain almost, as if Nasir knows he has been talked about, but not sure of what was said. The gold wolf charm sits in the hollow of his collarbones, bobbing slightly when the Nasir swallows. 

It must be the wine’s sudden effect on him, the rush of alcohol from standing so quickly, but Agron suddenly gets the urge to pull Nasir against his side. To kiss him boldly and dirty, a claim against Tenkamenin’s openly staring at the king. Agron knows he is probably one of many people within the room staring at Nasir, but it sits hot and festering in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t want to share this moment with anyone.

“Nasir,” Agron greets, ignoring the slight slur in the center of his name as he leans down, giving into his thoughts and kissing his husband. He can sense something is off about their joined magic, a hint of something too sweet, too sickening about their union, but Agron pushes it aside. He is too drunk to try and unravel the mystery of their union. 

With one hand on Nasir’s lower back, Agron guides him up on his toes, careful to leave enough space that Malik doesn’t get squished between them. He works his mouth against Nasir’s, easing his tongue into Nasir’s mouth and lapping over his top lip, teasing against his teeth. Nasir makes a soft sound, not quite a moan but a breathy little sigh, tilting his head forward when Agron skids his teeth across Nasir’s bottom lip. 

When Nasir pulls away, he drags the side of his thumb along his bottom lip, eyes calculating and narrowed as he watches Agron. He knows his husband well enough to recognize the curls of green jealousy licking at the edges of his expression, the drunken slouch of his shoulders. Nasir doesn’t know why though. He doesn’t even know the man standing next to Agron, though the long horns protruding from his skull give hint. 

“King Tenkamenin,” Agron keeping his hand on Nasir’s back, thumb dragging in small, tantalizing circles. “May I present my husband, King Nasir.”

"Your majesty." Tenkamenin grins wide and open, his high cheekbones crinkling his smooth skin. He bows low, one arm crossed over his hips, being careful of the gap between them and his long horns. Tenkamenin is familiar with the Alptraum culture enough to know it'd be foolish to get too close to the alpha's mate, especially considering their child rests between them, happy and glowing.

"King Tenkamenin, welcome to our home," Nasir smiles, bowing in return. Malik has finally noticed him, wiggling around in Agron’s arm until he can wrap a tiny fist around a strand of Nasir’s long hair. It helps him feel connected to his baba, not tugging on it, simply holding it. “It is wonderful to finally meet you. How are you enjoying your stay with us?”

"I am. I find myself constantly marveling at the beauty of your palace and the exquisiteness of your people." Tenkamenin's eyes shameless rove over Agron for a moment before he snaps his attention back to Nasir, grin spreading. "I would expect nothing less from the Alptraum though."

Pressing his tongue to the top of his teeth, Nasir tactfully adverts his eyes just long enough to fetch a cup of wine from a nearby servant. This king is not the first to stare at Agron so shamelessly, nor will he probably be the last. Still, the threat of flames flickers along Nasir's chest, acidic and nauseating. "Are you married, your highness? I have not heard of your consort."

"Gharma, my wife, is heavy with our sixth child at the moment." Tenkamenin grins, draining his own cup and fetching another. 

"Is she not able to travel?" Nasir can still feel the weariness in his bones from his own travels to Galena. 

"She is here somewhere." Tenkamenin glances at Agron through his lashes, sharing some joke that is lost on Nasir. "It's not proper for a Taurant man to be close to his wife when she is pregnant. It's considered unseemly in the eyes of the gods."

"Improper? Why?" Nasir knows he's tilting towards rude, bold and intrusive in a way that cuts. Still, he cannot stop the words now that he's started. "Did you not cause her to be full of your child?"

"Of course I did." Tenkamenin's brow slowly lowers, a furrow creasing between his mighty horns. "It is not the Taurant way. We do not lie with our wives once they are full of our children. It is considered taboo to even think of it."

“And does the woman have any control over this or do you just use her body to house your child?” Nasir asks, a sudden wave of anger taking over him. How dare this man come into his house, stare at his husband as if he wishes to disrobe Agron right now, and then thinly veil insults at them. “Do you send someone to aid in her pleasure or only think of your own?”

“A woman’s body is sacred when she is pregnant.” Tenkamenin snaps, the mood souring as his expression darkens. “She spends her days eating, preparing, and resting. A man’s interference only causes stress for her, thus we allow her space. As for my own pleasure, I am the king after all.” Tenkamenin makes a flipped gesture with his hand, carelessly waving. 

“Well.” Nasir muses, voice catty and sharp. “I am sure there are many men and women at court that will be happy to sate you.” He straightens himself carefully, making the motion seem natural even though it seems to elongate him, pressing his whole side to Agron’s. “As for the Alptraum way, you will find that the bonds of marriage hold stronger worth.”

“An unfortunate truth.” Tenkamenin nods sympathetically, an awkward silence descending upon the group. 

Slowly, Agron looks his fingers through one of the straps that crisscrosses over Nasir's tailbone, tracing blindly the swirls of his tattoo. Nasir's skin is warm there, sparking a little where the markings of his magic are engrained in his skin. Suddenly, Agron wishes they were away from this all, secluded in Nasir's own rooms, the soft sound of wet frozen rain pattering against the glass around them. All Agron can seem to focus on is the feeling of Nasir against, the brushing of his hair against the soft skin on the inside of Agron's elbow, Nasir's scent. He wants to press his mouth to Nasir's spine, watch him arch and stretch over the soft furs of their bed. 

_Hour is growing late, my love._

Leaning forward, Agron drags his nose slowly along the cut of Nasir's jaw, pressing his mouth and sucking a kiss against the bone. He can feel the instant Nasir breaks out in goosebumps, a choked little moan caught in his throat as he tries to remain still. There are many others around them, always observant of the royal couple. Nasir doesn't turn to look at Agron, but his eyes snap forward to where Tenkamenin is watching them. 

_Your appetite is-_

_For the softness of your thighs and your voice calling my name as I enter you over and over again._ Agron interrupts Nasir's though, the tips of his fingers inching lower. _It has been too long._

_Agron._ Nasir's reply is gasping. _People are watching us._

_Let them see._ Agron smirks, fingertips trailing slowly along Nasir's waistband. _As if everyone at this court doesn't already speculate what we do when no one is around._

_I do not think-_ Nasir slowly presses his teeth to his bottom lip.

_You ache just as much as I do_ Agron nips Nasir's jaw again, rough and claiming. _You think I can't smell it on you? Your body, your heat begging for me. It has been too fucking long since I found myself inside of you. Let’s put the babe to sleep and fall to bed._

A crimson blush quickly spreads across Nasir's cheeks, dropping his head to hide it. He can't deny that the idea is appealing, but now is neither the time nor the place. Laeta spoke at length with Nasir about keeping up appearances, and having Ashur always linger beside them causes Nasir stress. He doesn’t want his brother to feel awkward about the royal couple. Malik seems to find it amusing, giggling and tugging on Agron's tunic. When he doesn't get the response he wants, he shrieks, kicking his legs until Nasir gingerly presses his hand to his stomach, rubbing there. 

"I feel as if I have missed something." Tenkamenin raises a slow eyebrow at the pair, drinking heavily from his goblet. The prolonged silence between Nasir’s arrival and now is only made more awkward by Agron’s intense stare, green eyes flashing as he tracks his husband’s face. It’s clear from the red flush spreading over Agron’s nose to his cheeks that he’s drunk. 

"Nothing of importance," Nasir clears his throat again, gazing intensely at Agron before turning away.

"If you need a moment-" Tenkamenin teases, eyes rove down the pair. He does not miss the possessive way Agron is cradling Nasir's hip, tugging them closer, nor the slight tent in Nasir’s golden pants. 

"No. We're fine.” Nasir presses a quick kiss to Malik’s forehead. “Excuse me, I think I shall go find your wife and greet her now, welcome her to my home. I hope to see you again soon, King Tenkamenin."

Nasir is careful when he pulls away from Agron, fingers trailing tantalizing down his arm. He's halted when Agron tangles their fingers, raising them to his lips to press a wet kiss across his knuckles. Although the action seems chaste, the heat in Agron's gaze is not nor the bite that follows closely. 

_You are drunk._ Nasir tries to chastise, the effect weak when Nasir smiles after it. 

_So are you._ Agron won’t let go of his hand, twisting their fingers, but somehow Nasir manages to get free, stumbling back with a giggle. They share a lingering look, one last sweep for Agron to center in on the peaking of Nasir’s hips over the edge of his pants, the cut of Agron’s chest through the open ties of his shirt. The heat is there, the temptation, but duty calls them apart. 

Behind a large, thick tapestry of two wolves chasing each other under a full moon, the Taurant women lounge upon lush pillows, trays of food situated around in close reach. It is easy to tell which is Queen Gharma, though it is not the Taurant way to wear crowns. She sits in the center, a ribbon of cloth tied around her head to keep her hair back from her pretty face. She's darker than her husband, features wider, with a small cleft in her chin. It's clear that she was heavier set before the pregnancy, but the glow of her being with child only seems to highlight her beauty. She smiles when she spots Nasir, raising up on her pillows. 

"Your majesty, what a wonderful surprise. You must forgive me. It took such effort to get down on the floor, I fear I may never get up." Gharma laughs, her deep voice seeming to fill the room as she cups her stomach gently. 

"As someone who just birthed a giant, I completely understand." Nasir laughs, brushing his hair over his shoulder as he lowers himself to sit next to the queen. "When are you due?"

"Very soon. Tenkamenin and I are hoping in the next month. Though we both fear the babe may be born on Alptra soil." Gharma places her hand companionably on Nasir's arm, smiling at him, "Though in all honesty, I will just be happy if the baby is born sooner than later. It seems a long time since I have seen my feet."

"I know that exact feeling. Imagine riding on a horse while you feel as if your body is ripping in half," Nasir laughs, the memory though fading still fresh in his mind. 

Gharma groans in distress, pressing her hand to her cheek in mock horror. Around her, her ladies in waiting glance at the queen before slinking back into conversation, whispering behind hands and glasses. The action isn't lost on Nasir, who shifts slightly, watching as a woman blatantly turns to ignore the queen. 

"I can only imagine." Gharma shakes her head. "You are so stronger than most though. Coming here, putting up with what I can only imagine is torture. This kingdom didn't gain their nickname for anything."

"The Alptraum aren't that bad," Nasir reaches forward to pluck a cup of wine from a nearby tray, "A little frigid at times, but what can you expect?"

"Ah! Agron has trained you well then," Gharma muses, raising her eyebrows as she tracks her eyes over Nasir. "I imagine part of it is your own craft though. Your own smarts and charm."

"What do you mean?" Nasir tries to keep his expression neutral, the licks of temper inching around him. He already lost it before with Tenkamenin; losing it with Gharma will serve no purpose. 

"I meant no offense." Propping herself up on her elbow, Gharma turns more towards Nasir, lowering her voice. "I'm sure my own story has made its way to your court. It's all true. I served Tenkamenin’s intended as her servant, and betrayed her by sleeping with her fiancé. I fell pregnant with Helio, and Tenkamenin was forced to do the honorable thing and marry me instead. The court was in an uproar for months."

"And you were forced to prove yourself worthy?" Nasir scoffs, turning to watch the dancing bodies through the thin curtains surrounding him. He can see Pietros' deep indigo tunic flashing silver and pale blue as he spins, body moving in time with a large, horned Taurant man. Nasir knows he shouldn't have drank so much with Chadara and Diona before coming down, there is a drunken coil of anger brewing in his stomach, fanned by the more wine he's drinking. His vision is getting hazy on the edges, skin feeling like it's prickling. 

"Paying for the crimes of the men who take what they desire and refuse the consequences. Are we not all just the mantel pieces our husbands decide to wear for the night?" Nasir spits. He's not even angry at Gharma nor Agron, really. It's the pestering words Ashur left him with, warning him to prepare for this evening, asking him what Agron would use him for tonight. What role was Nasir to play tonight?

"Is Agron so cruel?" Gharma asks quietly, "Your coupling is spoken of very highly, the envy of many at court. I have heard rumors that your magic tamed the beast, that he only bows to you."

"No," Nasir mutters, breathing the words into his cup. "I think it is more that he has brought the beast out of my magic. Awakened more than I have realized."

"Awakened? Perhaps they have just thrust their powers upon you, asked you to be more than you can be." Gharma tries to soothe. "I know I will always fall short in the eyes of the royalty, of the court, they will never see me as more than the servant that earned the love of their king. Still, I cannot erase who I am."

"They would have you though. They would have you do anything to become them," Nasir spits, vicious tilt to his voice as his teeth snap. "Require you to dress and dance and perform for them. Then whisper behind your turned back, knowing full well you cannot change the fact that you are you."

"You are not these people, your majesty. You will always be outside of them," Gharma sympathizes, drawing the wrong conclusions. "They cannot damn you to this fate, Nasir. You wear the separation on your skin, ingrained in your otherness. Do you think that these people will ever be able to see anything else? They may see you as their king, their savior, but you will always be a Pythonissan."

"I am fucking tired of it." Nasir snarls, lip curling over the words. "I have spent so much time trying to gain the love and respect of these people, erase the blood inside of me to acclimate to their ways. And for what? To some, I am their savior, the one to breathe breath back into their dying bodies. And to some, I am the whore that ensnared their beloved prince."

Gharma studies him for a moment, her ocher gaze tracking over Nasir's profile. His eyes are fringed in dark lashes, mouth pursed in distaste, looking devastatingly beautiful and horribly unimpressed. There is something so conflicting in the smaller king, a storm brewing behind those brown green eyes. It is not possible to be near Nasir, even covered in finery and gold, and not notice the electricity that clings to him. The breath before the bite, before the poison sinks in. 

“Alptra. The cornucopia of beasts,” Nasir mutters, words thick, “with their blessed kings.”

"Majesty?" Gharma asks softly, hesitating. 

"I suppose that isn't true either." Nasir slowly inhales, seeming lost in thought. "Perhaps I have always been a monster too."

"People can be multifaceted, highness. Instead of thinking of yourself as one or the other, perhaps it would serve you best to think of yourself as everything." Reaching out, Gharma takes a chance and touches Nasir's hand. "You can be the healer, the father, the lover, the king, and the whore all in one. It does not change that you are beloved and unique in your solitary."

Licking his lips, Nasir rubs them against one another, a bitter tilt to his head. His wine cup is mostly empty, a phantom stain of crimson in the bottom, but he still takes it as if it's a shot. It’s not up to par with the etiquette that Nasir exhibits, the poise seeming to seep from his every action. Gharma wonders if Nasir realizes that it is not necessarily a negative thing to be something else – something more. 

"You are right." Nasir smiles, a flush working its way across his nose and down onto his cheeks. "I cannot be anyone but who I am. You must excuse me."

“Oh!” Gharma doesn’t get a chance to respond, watching as the king gets to his feet, steps a little rougher but still graceful as he slips out into the crowd of dancing bodies. Instantly, someone joins him, dark head bent in conversation. 

“Brother, I wondered where you went to,” Ashur smiles, brushing his hand lightly down Nasir's back. 

"Apologies. I have duties that I have to attend to. Smiles and acknowledgements to certain guests," Nasir murmurs, distractedly finding another servant and snatching a goblet of wine from them. 

"Understandable. I am sure that Agron has many things he requires of you," Ashur watches as Nasir drains the glass, pressing it into the hand of a nearby woman. Ashur isn't sure if she's of noble blood or not. 

"I'm a performer," Nasir drunkenly wipes at his mouth, stepping through the crowd as if he has a destination in mind, but can't seem to find it. "I am here, thus I am expected to go through the steps."

"You are drunk brother, and that only helps skew the situation." Ashur tries to grab Nasir before he makes it towards the swirling bodies of the dancers, but he barely misses his strap. It's not all lost though as Nasir turns back to Ashur, scoffing loudly. 

"I am not drunk enough to forget who I am, Ashur. I am Pythonissan. I wear my status on my skin, and no amount of jewels or fur will ever be able to hide that." Nasir shakes his hair back from his shoulders. "Putting gold on trash doesn't change the fact that it's trash."

Nasir knows he shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t have drunk so much. Malik will need him later and Nasir never wants to let him down, never wants to be absent when Malik’s little voice makes that high pitched cry. But he can’t seem to focus on anything except fucking words. Ashur’s quiet and desperate whispering, always observing, warning, trying to tell Nasir that this life is a façade. He is stuck between the past and the present. Nasir will never be an Alptraum, never really be part of this family that stretches back years upon years. There is no wolf inside of him. No draw towards the moon. 

A tall man with golden curls and an open tunic reaches out his hands for Nasir, leading him forward into the crowd. It’s one of the more complicated Alptraum dances, a series of steps and turns that presses the partners together and then apart, a tease of skin. Nasir goes with the motion, body feeling heavy and sluggish, even though he keeps perfect time. There is an itching at the base of his spine to sneak away from this place, to find solitude in his rooms, curl up in his old trunk like he used to when he was a boy. He could wrap himself in old blankets, drown in the memory of Mika and Jem, his forgotten family. 

“You are a very good dancer, highness.” The man tries to speak to Nasir, craning his neck a little to be heard over the music. He has a very thick Alptraum accent, the consonants of his words clipped and rough. 

“I’ve had years of practice.” Nasir replies, neither surprised nor interested in carrying on this sort of conversation. Beneath his intricate clothing, Nasir's body aches, chest and back sore from lack of sleep and Malik's insatiable hunger.

"I have been told. Did you used to dance such as this? There are many steps to this dance. It's very complicated" The man asks, spinning Nasir in a small circle before guiding him back. The tempo speeds up for a moment, and Nasir moves through the motion of a quick and complicated kick step that Laeta would be proud of.

“I have been taught,” Nasir replies, spinning carefully to pull a cup from a servant. He only gets a swallow down before he has to follow through with another series of spins. It’s a blur of colors around him, though Nasir swears he focuses on Agron’s grim face along a stream of gold. 

“In this fashion?” The man is young and trying, nervous around royalty and aiming to impress. Nasir doesn’t know why he can’t handle it, furious for no fucking reason. 

"No, I danced to show how it looks when I fuck." Nasir hisses, the words suddenly sharp and completely in Pythonissan. He doesn't know where this rage is coming from, this frustration and anger towards anyone who comes near to him. A burning flame flickers in his chest, the urge to scream and run and cry all at once.

"I don't-" The man's face wrinkles in confusion, missing a step that causes the person next to him to roughly bump into him. He blushes, tips of his ears down over his neck, instantly apologizing. It only lasts a moment, a blur, as Agron is suddenly standing over his shoulder, gently but firmly pushing the boy to the side. 

"How you look when you fuck? A bold display to given so freely to this boy," Agron answers in Pythonissan, the words clipped and strange in his mouth. He reaches forward to grip Nasir’s wrist in his hand, dragging his husband half a step forward and away from the swirling bodies.

"Not any different than that bull fuck's eyes all over you," Nasir snarls, glaring hot and vicious. "Or did you think no one would notice the way he was blatantly begging for your cock."

_Tenkamenin and I have a past. He is harmless._ Agron switches abruptly, eyes narrowing. The red around them only seem to brighten the green, a drunken flush tinting him pink. Around them, people seem to scatter, giving the royals space. To anyone else, it would appear as if they are just staring at one another.

_Harmless?_ Nasir moves to yank his wrist away, caught by Agron's tightening grip. _Is that all it is? Will you call it the same when I find you in bed together? Harmless all the others who stand ready for your call?_

_We have talked about this._ Agron growls, sharp and vicious. Even mentally, his words are slurred on the end. _I have not fucked anyone since we have been married. I have not looked to fuck anyone. I do not hold your past above your head. Do not hold mine._

“It is not the past! It is the future. It is now.” Nasir doesn’t yell, but hisses boldly up at Agron, trying desperately to focus on him. Around the room, the colors seem to be blurring, the hot air pressing down on the couple. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? That I would just stand here stupid and blind?”

“Find out what?” Agron asks, pressing them back further until he has cornered them against a pillar. The tapestry above Nasir’s head is of a large tree, the branches hung with glimmering lights. 

“Your friends always covering for you. Don’t tell Nasir. Nasir couldn’t handle it. Stupid, small _witch_ ,” Nasir spits, trying to yank away from Agron’s hands, his wrist held firm. “You want me to be your husband when it’s convenient. I am the one to fill your bed. The one to give you children. The one to patch you and your people up when you are sick and dying. But you do not want _me_ , you want what I can do.”

“Are these your feelings or your brother's? What lies has Ashur given to you now?” Agron desperately presses his large and clammy palms to Nasir’s face, “How could you ever believe that? You are part of this family, every bit as important as-“

“He is my brother, Agron.” Nasir’s eyes narrow dangerously. “I cannot turn from him. We are of the same blood.”

“And is Pietros not your brother too? You have ignored him since Ashur has arrived.” Agron accuses, then leans down, trying for comforting now. “I know how it feels to have a brother, Nasir. To want to make them happy. To protect them.”

“It is not the same.” Nasir roughly shakes his head. 

“How is not the same? Do I not love Duro as you love Ashur? Have I not scarified, pushed people away, given anything to keep him nearby?” Agron moves his hands to Nasir’s shoulders. 

“It is not the same because Ashur is my brother.” Nasir hisses, tone cruel and curling as he leans up to spit the words into Agron’s face. “I have not taken my brother to bed with me.”

Agron’s eyes flash supernaturally green for a moment, back stiff as he stares down at Nasir, betrayed and hurt. “I took Duro into my bed to protect him. To make sure that his fate was not to be sold to some diplomat that Gerulf wanted to make friends with. I did not want him to fall prey to the political plots around him, to feel safe, to feel loved when everyone else would have loved to kill us both.”

“So your form of protection was fucking him? To ram your cock into your baby brother? Is that the way they do things in Alptra?” Nasir cannot stop the words. He hates that they slip out, a quick move of his tongue that he cannot freeze, regardless of how much he tries. 

Agron’s expression tightens, his lips forming a straight line as his bones creak from curling his hands into fists. Nasir can see the hurt in the curve of his brow, feel it lukewarm and acidic running through their joint magic. “I do not know what I have done to you to deserve this, but I have always tried to do best by you. I love you, Nasir. And I have done everything that I can to make sure you feel safe and protected and accepted by our people, by our friends, our family.”

“Just fucking stop.” Nasir cuts him off, the words slipping out before he can catch them. He burns to press his hands to his mouth, horrified at himself as he can’t stop talking. “I don’t want to hear it anymore. Fuck, I don’t want put Malik through this.”

“What?” Agron instantly drops his hands, the drunken pink flush of color draining from his face. The gap between them feels like miles. 

“I can’t keep doing this. I am not meant to be here. I’m not part of it, not in the way you want or need me to be. I want to go-“ Nasir doesn’t get a chance to say the rest of his sentence, cut off as Agron takes a staggering step backwards, staring wide eyed at his own hands.

“Don’t,” Agron chokes hard, staring blindly away from his husband. He can’t seem to meet Nasir’s eye, taking in a slow deep breath, almost as if he’s trying to hold himself back. “I can’t – I’m not –. Don’t say it.”

“This is not our place.” Nasir sighs deeply, leaning his full weight back against the column. “We do not belong here.”

The wine in the pit of Nasir’s stomach has turned sour, the drunken glow from before suddenly turned ashy and sick. He doesn’t understand where this anger is coming from, where this need to fucking speak words that he doesn’t mean. Of course he doesn’t want to leave Agron. He would never just take their baby and go. How could he? And yet, he couldn’t stop the words from falling out of his mouth, burning in his throat. 

“I think it best,” Agron licks his lips slowly. Against his legs, Agron’s hands are shaking, a tremble in his voice. “I’ll uh, I’ll spend the night in my rooms. Give you space to think. Duro has Malik.”

“Agron wait,” Nasir tries to lean forward, tries to wrap his desperate hands around Agron’s arm, but he can’t seem to move. He’s just stuck watching as Agron shakes his head, a lone hand wrapping around the back of his neck. 

“Goodnight Nasir.”

Turning, he blindly staggers his way through the crowd, heading towards the main hall’s door. Around him, people bow low and give their respect, but Agron does not see it. He doesn’t even bother to raise a hand towards Spartacus and Mira, instead, presses his hands to the wooden door and then slips into the dark hallway beyond. Any attempt at Nasir to call out to him through their magic is met with silence. 

\- - - 

Pietros sighs heavily, leaning back into Auctus' chest, situating his book against his thighs. They're both sprawled out on a couch, sharing the space with Barca on the end, the edges of Pietros' toes resting against this thigh. Across from them, Duro is completely spread over a small settee, tossing a ball into the air and catching it. They've ignored the fire, the embers lightening the room into more darkness then glow. Hour is not too late, though the moon has been up for a while, the days shorter in the long winter of Galena. 

"What games are tomorrow?" Barca rumbles, head tipped back against the cushions of the couch. 

"Spear, horse race, and the wild boar hunt," Auctus yawns, fingers gently caressing through Pietros' hair, "The Taurants will most likely win at the hunt. I doubt any of us will try to compete."

"When will these fucking games be over?" Pietros licks the tips of his fingers to turn a page, mouth pulled down in a scowl. 

"Hopefully soon," Duro mutters, catching the ball soundly in his palm and then switching hands. "I do not think I can sit through another awkward banquet where no one can understand anyone else and I'm expected to entertain every prince and princess from here to the fucking sea."

"That goblin princess seemed very fond of you," Auctus teases, a wide grin spreading over his face, "She kept touching your hair and trying to blow kisses at you."

"She also was three feet tall and smelt of burned cheese and vomit," Duro curls his lip in distaste. He makes a rough gagging noise, something crackling in the back of his throat, "Thank god Agron became king before I was promised off to one of those fucks. Gerulf had his eyes set on marrying me off to some foreign princess for years. There used to be a list in his office."

"Aw, majesty, don't be like that. You don't want to be married to a queen of a fucking swamp?" Auctus laughs louder when Duro turns to glare at him. "Would I have to grow gills to come visit you? Bog King? Your crown would just be a ring of mold growing in your hair."

"Fuck you." Duro hisses, tossing the ball at the man instead. "You have no idea how fucking shit that could have been."

"Not completely shit," Auctus smirks, "a lot of ingredients go into making a swamp. There is spores and toxins and-"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence as Duro suddenly launches at him, Auctus having to move Pietros up and out of the way before the prince collides into his lap. They tip the couch dangerously, both Barca and Pietros scrambling out of the way as Auctus wraps his arm around Duro's thigh and throw them both down on the rug. They wrestle for a moment, Duro with his long legs and Auctus big arms. Auctus manages to get Duro pinned on his stomach, one arm twisted behind his back and Auctus sitting on the back of his thighs. 

"Do you yield yet, prince?" Auctus grins, pressing Duro’s shoulders down. 

"You're a fucking asshole," Duro cries, muffled against the plush carpet. "When I get up-"

"If you get up," Barca helpfully supplies. He's back to sitting on the couch, Pietros curled up on the other end, having resumed reading. 

"Ugh. As your crowned prince, I command that you-" Duro kicks his legs uselessly. 

“That hasn’t worked in years.” Auctus laughs louder, swatting Duro’s thigh. “You have to yield, Goblin Prince.”

“I could have you killed.” Duro threatens, trying to roll them over. It’s impossible with the grip that Auctus has on him though. “Barca, I command you to take this traitor to the dungeon.”

“I would, but I just got comfortable again.” Barca muses, tipping his head back against the couch, one hand curled loosely around Pietros’ ankle. 

“You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if I was imprisoned,” Auctus shifts his weight, grinding his cock against Duro’s ass. It’s rough, a little too barbaric, but Duro instantly keens. 

“Fuck! You’re fucking cheating!” Duro snaps, trying to wiggle away while also arching back. “I can have you-“ Whatever he's going to say is lost as the door opens, a guard sticking his head in. The group instantly falls into a jolted silence, surprised when the guard presses his fist to his shoulder in a rough salute. 

"His majesty, the king." He announces, Agron stepping in a half a moment later. 

There is a change to Agron, has been since Spartacus and Mira's wedding. Dark circles line under his luminous green eyes, bloodshot and sharp, always glowing slightly. He's taken to constantly scowling, words gruff and usually quiet, movements slow. The change has come on suddenly, a dark cloud looming over him.

"Brother," Duro greets, the words losing some of their shine as he watches as Agron doesn't reply, just cocks his head a little in way of greeting. Clasped before him, Agron’s hands are wrapped in ribbons of fabric, knuckles bloody.

Auctus and Duro slowly separate, Auctus helping the prince from the floor and gently pushing him towards the vacant chairs in the corner. Even with their familiarity with the king, there is still something not right about Agron now. A darkness that creeps along the shadows around him, as if there is something else, something more. The group share a glance between them, looks of reservation and curiosity as Agron takes in a slow breath, finally speaking. 

"Pietros," Agron motions with his hand, "A word?"

"Of course." 

Setting his book on the table, Pietros follows Agron out of the room and onto the small balcony, the crisp and frosty air billowing around them. Pietros suddenly wishes he had thought to grab a blanket, wrapping his thin arms around himself instead. Agron stands by the railing for a moment, staring out into the snowy mountains, expression blank as he takes it all in. The sky above them is clear, littered in stars. 

"I need to ask you to be honest with me," Agron murmurs, voice soft and nearly lost in the wind, "Not as your king. As your brother-in-law."

"Okay?" Pietros hesitates, a sinking and hot fear crawling up his back. 

Agron drops his head, staring down at his hands. He does not know how to say what he's about to, how to get the words, broken and trembling, past his lips. He had barely made it past the first sentence during training earlier, raging against the filled bag, fists slamming into the leather until he had ruined his knuckles. The more he thinks about it, the more he wants to press his bloody hands against his eyes and rub this horror from them.

"Is Nasir leaving me?"

"What?" Pietros cannot help the gasp, stepping closer to Agron. "What do you mean?"

"I just need to know, Pietros. I can't live like this anymore," Agron shakes his head, throat rough. "It's been three days and he won't talk to me. He refuses to come to any dinners or to court. I haven't seen-" Agron swallows. "I haven't seen my son."

"What are you saying?" Pietros wraps his hand around Agron's forearm. "Agron, I haven't seen Nasir. Ever since Ashur showed up, I haven't been welcome in his rooms. I have been staying with Duro."

"At the reception, he said-" Agron shakes his head, blinking blindly against the tears that threaten in the corner of his eyes. "There is something wrong, Pietros. I looked at him, I felt our magic, there is something sickening about it. He told me he wanted to take Malik and go home."

"What?" 

A new emotion grows acidic and bitter in the back of Pietros' throat, fear melting away to rage. Nasir was the one to tell Pietros to accept their new life, to show strength and endurance, to become an Alptraum. He was the one that spearheaded the changes to their clothes, learned the language, told Pietros that they could not run away, even when Gerulf threatened to kill Nasir. Nasir wanted to be the king that people found worthy, and now he threatens to take that all away?

“I don’t know what else to do.” Agron answers honestly, shaking his head. His head feels split open, a million things that he’s gone over, a thousand ways he could have changed all of this. Does Agron have the strength to let them both leave? Would he have any choice?

“I am going to talk to him. To find out what the fuck is going on.”

Agron follows Pietros back into the room, mouth set in a grim line. He doesn’t want to necessarily stop him. Agron had tried to enter Nasir’s rooms before, but the guard had quietly and uncomfortably told Agron that he was asked not to enter. Out of respect, Agron had backed off, but not before catching Ashur’s gaze over the guard’s shoulder, a sickening fear settling in the pit of his stomach. 

Motioning with his hand, Agron commands Barca to follow Pietros. He would rather they be safer than sorry, an unsettling feeling working his way down his spine. What has happened in this house that protection is now required to see Nasir? 

When Pietros enters the suite, he's surprised that the rest of Nasir's house are all stationed around the room, looking pinched and worried. Chadara is closest to Nasir's bedroom door, chewing on her thumbnail. Her curls are a mess, finger tangled. Across the room, Diona and Bagoas are curled up together on the couch, knees drawn to their chest. 

"Oh Pietros, thank god." Chadara gasps, turning abruptly and throwing her arms around Pietros' neck. 

"What's wrong? What's going on?" Pietros pats her back, meeting Barca's eyes in fear. 

"Nasir has been sick for days. He won't leave his bed," Chadara pulls back, whipping at the tears on her face. "I thought at first he was just tired. You know how he runs himself ragged. But he's been throwing up the whole time. He won't let me take Malik from either." 

"Why didn't you come and get me sooner?" Pietros asks, harshly. He knows it's not fair to treat her this way, but he can't help the desperation in his voice as he makes his way to the bedroom door. 

"Oenomaus is inside with him," Chadara replies, crossing her arms over her chest. "Melitta is in town with a sick family and Völva is off doing some magic thing in the mountains."

Pietros nods to her, placing his hand on Barca's chest to keep him outside of the room as Pietros slips inside. True to Chadara's description, it is clear that Nasir has not moved from the bed in three days. The room is dark, air stagnant, only a sliver of light being let in from the curtains. On the edge of the bed, Nasir sits bare chest, the straps of his golden outfit pooled around him. Malik is silent in his bassinet in the corner, blinking owlishly at Pietros, sucking on his own fist. 

"Nasir." Kneeling before him, Oenomaus is gently dragging a wet cloth along Nasir's cheek. "You must tell me what happened."

"I don't-" Nasir freezes when he sees Pietros, eyes widening before tears suddenly flood them. He doesn't even have to say anything, opening his arms, and Pietros is instantly beside him, hugging him close.

“What is going on, habibi?” Pietros pets Nasir’s hair, cringing when he feels the greasy strands against his palm. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know what happened,” Nasir hiccups, resting his cheek against Pietros’ shoulder. “I went to the reception and I was drinking, but I don’t-I don't remember drinking that much. And there was that man, “ Nasir trails off, sniffling. “I don’t know why I was so mad. And Agron was trying to talk to me and I just-"

Pietros pushes Nasir back a little, strokes his fingers over his face. The tears in Nasir's eyes are steady, nose red. Pietros doesn't fucking even know what happened, isn't sure if they got in a fight or not. All he knows is that Nasir is in here, Agron outside, a cavern of shit between them. 

"What do you mean? What happened with you and Agron?" Pietros asks, watching as Oenomaus slowly inserts a needle into Nasir's arm. 

"I said horrible things to him," Nasir whispers, covering his face with his hands. He can't even look up at Pietros, drawing in a shaky breath. "The worst things I could say."

"Did you mean them?"

The question makes Nasir drop his hands, staring wide eyed and stricken at Pietros. There is something strange about the way Pietros is staring at him, watching him closely, almost as if he isn't sure that what Nasir is about to say is the truth. 

"No. Of course not."

"Then why did you say them?" Pietros glances at the door before lowering his voice. "Nasir, if it was Ash-"

"It wasn't." Nasir shakes his head, brow furrowing. "I don't know what it was, but Ashur wouldn't do that to me."

“He doesn’t have any magic. There is just reason for his to resort to other means in order to control you.” Pietros tries again, prays that somehow he will be able to reach his best friend. It’s too no avail though as Nasir glowers at him. 

“He’s my brother. He only wants what’s best for me.”

Pietros tries to keep his composure, counting back from ten. He knows that it wouldn't be wise to call Nasir on this, to try and fight with him. Nasir wants to believe in his brother bad enough that he has glossed over Ashur's less than desirable attributes. It is a weakness that Pietros prays isn't going to backfire.

"Nasir, with your permission, I think it best to take Malik to go see Agron and for you to get cleaned up." Oenomaus stands slowly, packing away his medical equipment. He slips the vial of blood he's just taken from Nasir into his bag. "You cannot carry on this way. I have no doubt that you are sick, but I do not know what ails you. I will need to wait until Melitta gets back to do the proper testing."

Nasir looks over at the baby in the corner, laid on his back, a soft toy clutched in his tiny fist. He's been cared for, clothes changed, fed and loved on. Nasir would never ignore his son due to his own hurting, but he knows that he's done so anyways unintentionally. Malik keeps turning wide eyes towards the door, making these soft little whining noises in the back of his throat. He does not understand the absence of his daddy.

"Okay," Nasir nods, rubbing his hands through his hair. He grimaces against the feeling, pulling his hands back from the greasy strands. 

"Oenomaus, can you take Malik to his father?" Pietros asks, standing up from the side of the bed. "I think that myself and the others can make sure Nasir is cared for."

"Of course." Stooping, Oenomaus picks up Malik, cooing down at him a little. Malik does not look impressed nor truly upset, huge green eyes trailing from Oenomaus’ smiling face over to Nasir’s.

Standing, Nasir moves over to his son, kissing his temple gently. He whispers encouragements to him, a little prayer in Pythonissan for protection and happiness, curling a small white lily into Malik’s hair. He stands there watching as Oenomaus carries Malik out of the room, frozen and heart sick, listening until sudden the babe gives a loud cry, shrieking at what can only be from the joy of seeing Agron again. The overwhelming urge to cry is back again, and Nasir nearly sinks into it, pressing his sweat slicked hands to his face. 

“Come on, little brother.” Pietros soothes, wrapping his arm around Nasir’s shoulders. “Let’s get you into a bath.” 

Nasir does not fight it, just follows, letting the guilt and misery settle warm and syrupy in the pit of his stomach. 

\- - -

In the North Hall of the castle, a large room takes up most of the second floor. Its ceilings are high, chandeliers heavy with crystal to illuminate the walls. It is the resting place of the royal family's portraits; each member of the monarchy having sat for their own picture before being placed in their official spot according to lineage. It dates back at least five hundred years, the faces of kings and queens and princes and princesses all staring down onto the occupants. 

This is Agron's secret place. Not even Duro knows that he comes here, leaning against the wall, staring at the huge portrait across from him. The woman is lovely, face pale with heavily lashed blue eyes and dark curls cascading down her back. She's wearing a large, ebony gown, ribbons of silver woven along the edges. The painting highlights her carved cheekbones, the fullness of her mouth, the glimmer of jewels in her crown. 

It's in the middle of the day, the sunlight filtering in through a small crack in the curtains. Agron had left Malik in the care of Diona and Chadara, letting the babe sleep in his big bed in his suite. Agron hasn't really slept in it himself, but he had laid down with the babe for a little bit earlier. 

Agron can hear the familiar footsteps coming down the hall from the moment they enter the hall. He follows the sound down the plush carpet laid over the stones, wolf hearing even zoning in on the soft sound of his breaths. Nasir hesitates outside of the door, presses his palm against it, before inhaling sharply and pushing the heavy wood inwards.

"Hey." Nasir steps into the room, pausing with enough space between them that if Agron really wanted, he could push up from where he's sitting and leave. Instead, he just turns his head to look up at Nasir.

"Hey."

They pause for a moment, both of them just staring at each other. Nasir isn't wearing anything bright or glittery, instead dressed down in a loose pair of cream colored pants, chest bare with a small sheer vest over it. He looks a little pale in this lighting, mouth drawn and eyes dark, shuddering in another breath. 

"I didn't mean to disturb you. I went looking for you in your suite but Chadara said you left," Nasir laces his fingers together, awkwardly wringing them. "I just started wandering the castle until-"

"Until you found me?" Agron asks. 

He's not too unaware to realize that Nasir and his magic allow them to be attune to one another, melding into one. He can sense when Nasir is nearby too, a peculiar tingle in the middle of his chest as if his magic is reaching out to intertwine with Nasir’s. Agron just wishes it didn’t make him feel sick right now, unsure of how this conversation is going to go down.

"Yes." 

Nasir drops his eyes from Agron's to his knees, staring intently at where Agron is resting his wrists there. It feels as if someone is pressing on his throat, the guilt and shame choking him. Why hadn’t he come in here with a script all set out? Nasir should have thought of what he was going to say. Instead, he was desperate and feverish when Oenomaus finally released him to leave his room. Nasir hadn’t even bothered to go find Ashur. Instead, he had run down the hallways, desperately searching for his husband. Now, he stands still for a moment, seeming to slowly be building up the courage to say what he came here to say. Agron lets him, watches closely as Nasir twitches, mouth drawn into a deep frown. 

"I don't know what to say." Nasir begins, soft and careful. "I don't have the words to ask you to forgive me. I'm not even sure I deserve forgiveness. What I said to you. Agron, I was so cruel. All I keep thinking about is your face and I couldn't stop the words from coming out."

"Do you want to leave me?" Agron keeps staring at Nasir, watching ever reaction, even movement. He can tell how much Nasir is hurting, how bad he wants to fix this, but Agron needs to be sure. He doesn’t want to pressure Nasir into anything. 

"No!" Nasir lifts his head abruptly, desperate and hurting. "I don't know what happened. I don't know why I said those things to you. I never wanted to hurt you like that. I’m so sorry."

"Nasir," Agron interrupts the rambling, lifting his arm up and to the side. It's a clear invitation, and Nasir only hesitates a moment before he's sinking to the floor, curling up with his side pressed along Agron's. 

"I know we are going to fight sometimes, and sometimes we're both going to say things we don't mean," Agron gently holds Nasir's chin between two of his fingers. "But that doesn't change the fact that I promised to be beside you from the day we got married until the afterlife."

"I’m sorry,” Nasir nuzzles against Agron as much as he can, pressing his hand to Agron’s chest. “I love you so much. I don’t know why I said what I said. I love you too much. And Malik, how could I do that to him?”

“It’s okay. I know you wouldn’t. I couldn’t let you go, not without ripping the heart from my chest.” 

Leaning in, Agron kisses Nasir gently, keeping it light and simple. There are too many things unsaid, so many words that both of them should probably say, but in this moment, it all narrows down to breath and skin and lips. Nasir relaxes against him, fingers stroking over Agron's collarbones, looking dazed but happy when they pull away from one another. He's flushed a little, a sliver of gold making its way from the corner of his mouth down to his neck. Snuggling further down, Nasir presses his whole body along Agron's, turning his attention to the portraits around them. 

"Are these all your relatives?" Nasir asks softly, glancing at the paintings nearest him. He can see the familiar features of Agron's royal blood, the strong nose, the cut jaw, the scowl etched onto a beautiful mouth. 

"They are," Agron keeps his breath even so as not to disturb where Nasir is resting, adjusting himself into a more comfortable position. "Five hundred years of kings and queens of Alptra."

"She's pretty." Nasir murmurs, relaxing when Agron tangles their fingers together. He motions towards the painting before them. "Your mother?"

"Yeah. Isolde of the Northern Lands, Queen of Alptra, mother to Prince Agron and Prince Duro. Gerulf's captured wife." 

Above him, Agron rests his chin on the top of Nasir's head. Isolde's pale eyes stare down at them, knowing and calculating. From this angle, Nasir can see that though she is naturally thin, the cut of her dress has been sewn to allow for growth. 

"She is pregnant with you in the portrait?" Nasir asks, unable to draw his gaze away from the soft cupid's bow of her mouth. It is so familiar, the spitting image resting on Agron's own face. 

"She was, yes." Agron takes a deep breath. "She used to tell me that I was the only good wedding gift she ever received."

"You must have loved her a lot," Nasir presses his cheek down against Agron's knees, caressing his fingertips along Agron's calves. 

"It is hard to say," Agron turns his attention to stroking along Nasir's spine. "We were close, yes, but there are things I cannot forgive her for. She stood by and watched what Gerulf did to us, the torture he would inflict. It hurt her, but she never tried to stop it. Not until..."

Nasir can feel the tension in Agron's body, the straightening of his spine against the wall. He doesn't move, simply presses a chaste kiss to the leather over Agron's knee cap and then places his cheek back down there, waiting. He knows that Agron has never told anyone what happened to Isolde. Not even Spartacus knows. Nasir does not expect Agron to tell him now. He may never. 

"Gerulf started training me to be a warrior from the time that I could stand." Agron starts, voice soft and wistful. "That giant skeleton that used to hang in the throne room tent? I killed it when I was five. My mother came from shifters in the North, hunters who lost a battle against Gerulf's forces. He claimed her as his prize, and she saw me as her way out."

Nasir is glad he is not facing his husband, glad that he can stare up at this woman, this queen that stood and watched as her sons were beaten, burned, tortured to be something they never should have been. Nasir gets a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he thinks of what would have happened to Agron had Gerulf not been killed. 

"Around the time I turned seven, a prophecy came out claiming that a son of the night would grow to be the greatest warrior the world has ever known - a king among kings. Gerulf heard what the oracle said and automatically assumed it was me. I came from two people of the night. I was skilled in sword and killing, quicker than any other boy my age. Gerulf wanted me to be this child, and so, he began to make deals."

At this, Agron pauses to take a steadying breath. If he tells this story, if he finally gives up his secret to someone else, there is a chance that there is no going back from it. Nasir will know the thing that tortures Agron, that keeps him up at night. 

"I do not know why, but when I turned sixteen, I was promised to wed a vampire prince named Caesar. It was a treaty to forge our two houses, Caesar to rule at night and me in the day. We are both first heirs, so it was meant to strengthen both Alptraum and Roma." 

Agron closes his eyes, wants to forget everything he's about to say, but he can't escape it. It is part of him, it always has been. 

"Caesar is must older, vicious, cruel in ways that I cannot even fully comprehend. I saw part of it though. A part of the vampire betrothal ceremony is the sharing of blood. Usually it is done like our weddings, cutting of hands or arms, but Caesar-" Agron thinks of Ashur's smirking face, his knowing look. "Caesar bit me instead."

"He what?" Nasir cannot keep the surprise from his voice, turning his head back to look at Agron. He instantly regrets it as Agron looks guilty, eyes closed and face wrinkled. 

"I still have the scar. It's on the inside of my thigh, lost among all the other scars I've gained over the years." Agron opens his eyes. "I never loved him, Nasir. Never fucked him. It was something else, carnal attraction maybe? Caesar wanted a warrior and I wanted to please my father."

Nasir does not trust his voice, nodding blindly as he stares at Agron, fingers still laced together. 

"It was only six months later that the prophecy was fully passed down," Agron cups Nasir's face with his hands, brushing his thumb under Nasir's eye. "It wasn't just a child formed from night, but a child formed from both, swollen in the womb of power sent from ancient times."

"The prophecy spoke of me?" Nasir's eyes widen, thinking back to Fatin, of her smiling and sad face, the tears in her eyes. How she had brushed his hair and made him recite prayers to gods that Nasir was too young to truly believe in. 

"By the time my father figured out he needed to find a Pythonissan," Agron shakes his head, bitter and sticky, "I was already scheduled to attend the tests."

Nasir lays his head back down on Agron's knees, eyes moving back to the silent queen. He does not know what to think of all of this, a lot to process at once. 

"My mother hated the arrangement and she had been working with her advisors on a way to unravel it. She did not trust the vampires. I do not know what her plan was for killing my father, but I know that he must have found out. She was never supposed to go to the tests with me, but Gerulf ordered her to. I think in some ways; he knew that they would kill her too."

Agron falls silent for a moment, rubbing his hands over his face. He regrets suddenly that they're not having this conversation in bed, somewhere that Agron can press his face into the center of Nasir's back, can indulge in breathing in his scent, his comfort. 

"What happened?" Nasir whispers, gently and kind. 

"I failed them. I could not perform the way the elders wished me to," Agron replies, contorting his body until he can rest his cheek against Nasir's shoulder. "And Isolde tied me to that horse and scratched me, gave me all of her power through her mark, and sent me back here. I can still hear her screaming my name sometimes when it's silent, her voice was so shrill."

Slipping out from against Agron, Nasir turns on his knees until he can face his husband. Warm arms encircle Agron's broad chest, drawing him forward until Nasir can envelope him in a tight hug, breathing deeply into his hair. Agron isn’t' crying, has mourned for so many years already, but the press of Nasir's body against his gives him comfort he never thought he'd know. 

"You are so strong, my love." Nasir whispers, peppering gentle kisses against Agron's temple. "To stand here, on the throne, when all this horror has happened to you."

"It is not my own strength though. Spartacus, Duro, Auctus, Barca, fuck even Crixus, have all helped to pull me back from that madness," Agron draws back, holding Nasir's face delicately between his hands. "You beside me every day gives me a reason not to fall into darkness."

"You are more than what Gerulf wanted for you," Nasir whispers, fingertips ghosting Agron's eyebrow, down over his cheek, across his bottom lip. "You are your own man."

Agron pulls Nasir to him then, hands entangled in his hair. He angles Nasir's head to the side, kisses him sweet and then slow, dragging their lips together. It's somewhere between a gasp and a moan that Nasir's mouth falls open, tongue curling slowly around Agron's. They're so familiar with each other, can trace along soft skin, the wet slide of tongue tangling blindly. Agron's teeth catch on Nasir's bottom lip, suck against the skin until he can feel it bruise under his tugging. 

"We should wait," Agron growls, nipping roughly at Nasir's jaw. He knows a mark is going to bloom there, crimson and violent. "Malik is going to be up soon. He'll be hungry."

“He has missed us,” Nasir murmurs, staying close to whisper the words between their mouths, breathing them slowly. “He’s too young to understand why we weren’t together.”

“Come on.”

Agron gently guides Nasir up onto his feet his hands on Nasir’s thin hips, steadying him before crawling up into a standing position himself. Behind the pair, Isolde’s gaze does not waver from the pair, but for the first time, Agron is able to swallow a little bit of the guilt away. There are more important things to focus on, their sleeping son upstairs in a bed ten times his size. 

No one stops them as they make their way through the hallways, guards bowing their heads low but not abandoning them. It is a rarity that no one from court intercepts them, Laeta appearing out of nowhere to chastise about proper attire or etiquette. No, instead Agron and Nasir move unabated through their home, hands clasped and whispering to each other. 

Nasir doesn’t even really get a full look at Agron’s rooms, noticing the splashes of blue and wolves everywhere before his attention is drawn to the left, a doorway thrown open and the sound of crying coming from within. Chadara is trying to sing to Malik, the baby clutched in her arms as she bounce walks him back and forth along the length of the bedroom. 

“Oh thank the gods,” Diona’s hair is a wild mess, dark circles under her eyes as she rushes towards the royal couple. “He will not eat. He will not sleep. All he does is cry.”

“It’s alright. He’s probably just fussy,” Agron soothes the woman, taking her by the shoulders as Nasir steps around them, going to Chadara. The minute he has Malik in his arms, the baby stops screaming and instantly turns his face towards Nasir’s chest, one hand firmly wrapping around a lock of his hair. 

“If all else fails, at least we know Malik has already started perfecting his battle cry,” Chadara mutters, rubbing her fingers against her ears. “A little high pitched but it definitely has an effect.”

“He’s just hungry,” Nasir coos down at the babe, moving over to the chair in the corner, shedding his vest carefully along the way. “Aren’t you baby? We were so mean to leave you alone for so long, but now me and your daddy are gonna spend the rest of the day with you. What do you think about that? Hmm?”

Malik gives a quiet little hum, his free hand resting in the center of Nasir’s chest, tiny fingers curled into a loose fist. Whenever he’s being held by Nasir, it seems that Malik wants to stretch his body out, be touching as much as he can of his Baba. Nasir allows him it, allows him to secure one hand in his hair, soothing him with soft little noises and kisses pressed to the baby’s fine hair. 

“You and Chadara are relieved of duties today. Go and rest.” Agron commands gently, pushing the women together and towards the door. 

“Highness.” Both women bow, the weariness clearly setting in as they shuffle out of the apartment. 

Agron does not wait to see if they are completely gone before making his way over to the large bed and flopping onto it, rolling onto his side to watch Nasir and Malik. They make a lovely image, the scent of warmth and family filling the air as Nasir pets down Malik’s small chest, raising him up onto his shoulder. Malik is still forming his own scent, hints of both Agron and Nasir, the sweet cadence of milk and fur, something particular to the babe. Agron cannot seem to get enough of it, inhaling slowly as Nasir moves towards the bed. 

“He was a very hungry boy,” Nasir murmurs, slipping Malik in between them as Nasir brackets the other side of the bed. “I don’t even think he stopped to take a breath that whole time.”

“He’s a growing princeling. Has to get all the protein and vitamins he can,” Agron muses, watching as Malik squirms on his stomach for a moment, raising his head with a toothless grin. He’s amused by himself, slapping his hands down onto the fur blanket and giggling. 

“Yes well, I am think any more of that and I won’t be able to get dressed.” Nasir rolls onto his back, buttoning back up his vest over his tender chest. He tries not to grimace as the fabric slides across his nipples, sore and a little puffy. 

“Sore?” Agron sympathizes, letting Malik grab onto his hand, playing with Agron’s long fingers. 

“Mhm,” Nasir gives up on trying to redress, instead he wiggles out of the clothing entirely, sighing when he relaxes back against the pillows. “I think I may start weening him soon. He’s going to need more than I can give him.”

“I’m sure he’s very happy with all you give him,” Agron coos at Malik, leaning forward to kiss the baby’s cheek, earning another shrieked laugh. Malik rolls towards Agron, snuggles down on his back so he can reach his chubby palms up against Agron’s jaw. He pets over the stubble there, marveling at his daddy’s face, poking his fingers into Agron’s dimples. 

“He loves you so much,” Nasir hides a yawn in his wrist, scooting closer to nuzzle into Malik’s curls. His eyes have grown heavy just from the comfort of the room, the warmth of his family curled so closely together. After three days of being sick and crying, Nasir cannot help it.

“I love you both so much.” Agron strokes his hand down the side of Nasir’s face, leaning over their son to press a soft kiss to his forehead. He repeats the action with Malik, already recognizing the slow blinks from the baby for what they are. 

It’s not long before both Nasir and Malik are asleep; Nasir’s finger caught in one of Malik’s tiny hands. There is a comfort in seeing them so content, safe in Agron’s bed, in his arms. He can hear their heartbeats, their slow breathing, the flutter of Nasir’s eyelashes on his cheeks and Malik’s quiet humming. There is nothing that will ever compare, nothing ever be as important as these two. 

He wants to sleep too, to fall deep into slumber, to finally rest now that he knows his family is safe, but Agron hesitates. The dream from before haunts him, the familiar but unfamiliar man that caressed his face and somehow appeared in the dream space that only Agron and Nasir should share. The man was beautiful, his skin tan and eyes dark, but Agron cannot recall if he’s ever seen him. In all honesty, he nearly resembled Nasir, but not quiet. 

In the end, Agron has no choice as between one blink and another, sleep overtakes him. 

 

\- - - 

Galena's council room is plain compared to the rest of the lavishly designed castle. Instead of tapestries, large shields, war hammers, axes, and the skeletons of horrendous beasts are stationed around the room. The whole thing is lit by a large oculus in the ceiling, much as the throne room, but instead of open air, this one is covered in red glass, casting an eerie glow on the members surrounding the large mahogany table. 

Agron sits at the head, elbows on the table and chin resting against his thumbs. There is a half empty cup of water before him, the cast of light from above making it appear as if blood. To his right, the chair is vacant, a reminder that Spartacus and Mira are both away on their honeymoon. They promised not to be gone longer than a month, traveling out to the coast to celebrate their new marriage. To Agron's left, Duro sits surprisingly tall and put together. Auctus stands half a breath behind him, flanked by Barca. 

Down the left side of the table, it sits Saxa, Tove, and then Dietrich. They all have taken to wearing small circlets of woven gold, a symbol of their status but nothing as showy as the king's own heavy crown. Across from them, Crixus and then Naevia sit as well, the right side of the table also missing another seat towards the end for Mira. The very last chair is also vacant. 

"Was Solonius intended to arrive, highness, before I shut the door?" Barca asks, back straight and eyes forward. He is in perfect soldier form. 

"I did not invite him," Agron murmurs, waving his fingers towards Barca, giving the command. 

Walking slowly, Barca moves towards the double doors, pulling them both shut before sliding a large board down and into the lock. There is a sense of duty, ceremonial, in the way Barca turns on his heel, slamming his fist into his shoulder as a sign of respect. It is the tradition that in times of council, the room and its occupants must be shut away from the outside, undisturbed and protected. 

Unfolding his hands, Agron slowly places his palms down on the table, drawing in a slow breath before beginning to speak. "Since arriving at Galena, I have received multiple reports of unusual activity within in the mountains. At first, it appears that a group of rogue vampires were trying to find path across our border and into Taurant. Animals and stray travelers were found slaughtered amongst the peaks."

He pauses to look at Naevia and Crixus, getting confirming nods in reply. They have been the ones trying to warn him since they arrived, countless reports left on Agron's desk only to be ignored for all the other shit that has been transpiring. Agron chides himself for not paying more attention. 

"In the past month, the sightings of these beasts has only multiplied. Last night, a pack of wolves were slaughtered on the northern dells. Their bodies were hung from trees and stripped of fur. Their carcasses split from tall to throat."

"They are threatening us?" Tove asks, brow knitted together. "On the edge of our own fucking home?"

"Let us ride out and meet these fucking leeches," Saxa echos her brother, slapping her hand down onto the table. "Remind them of who they trespass on."

"It is not so simple," Naevia cuts in. She is surprisingly out of armor, but instead sits in a pale dress of lavender, his long hair twisted up. The affect is staggering, Naevia looking soft and beautiful, only her eyes giving a hint to the warrior that she is. "We have cause to believe that the groups of vampires are not the same. That they're multiple."

"Scouts?" Dietrich speaks up then, glancing at his nephew and then back. "Why would there be scouts? We have not fucking bothered with the vampires in what? One hundred years?"

"That is not true either," Crixus rumbles, his hands looking huge as they grip his glass. "Gerulf made deals with the vampire clans many times. He was particularly fond of the Roma."

Agron tries not to grimace, thinking Caesar’s red ringed blue eyes staring at him from across the room. He will never be able to erase the feeling of Caesar's hands on him, sliding down to kneel before Agron before biting into him, flesh tearing under powerful jaws. Nor can he ever erase the vampire woman from the battlefield, her dark hair and red dress stained in crimson, the baby in her arms. 

"There is more," Naevia speaks up, watching Agron for his nod of approval before continuing, "Word has reached us this morning that the Bjergjtrolde nation has ceased all trade with us and that the Hundre have followed suite."

"The fucking trolls are breaking alliance?" Duro spits, sharing a glare with his cousins before turning his attention to the second captain of the guard. "You're got to be fucking kidding me."

"We are afraid that others will see the breaking of treaties and be quick to do so as well," Naevia replies, pulling a stack of paper towards her. "Reports from all over the kingdom have been coming in of nocturnal creatures acting out, hunting more, violent slaughtering."

"Something is moving in the night," Crixus murmurs, voice deep and slow. "Whatever it is, is drawing closer. We must be prepared for when the vampires finally breech the mountains."

Agron clears his throat. He's drained his cup of water, licking slowly over his lips as he stares at the map before him. It shows where the vampire attacks have been found in the mountains. The first ones are far out, a testing almost, as if they were looking for a way in. Then the second wave, more succinct and careful. The last one, on the other side of the North peak that surrounds the city, where the wolves were found. Agron is thankful Naevia and Crixus haven't spoken to the rest of what was found there, the snake carcass found in the stomach of the alpha wolf, the golden thread tied around the snake's body, level with where its stomach would be. 

"What do they want though?" Tove asks, hesitantly staring at Agron. "Do you think- I mean-"

"We don't know, but it is a possibility we are going to have to consider." Agron wants to rub his hands over his face, to hide his eyes, to try and wash away the idea that there are people already beginning to hunt his son. 

"Nephew," Dietrich finally speaks up, leaning forward to get past his children, "I can call for reinforcements from my men left in the hunting grounds. We can double our efforts, put guards and soldiers throughout the city."

"The Taurants have also signed the treaty between our lands," Crixus adds in, "We can ask for their aid."

“The most important thing is not to alert the peasants. Any sort of panic and it will just draw attention from guarding the city and into keeping the city at peace.” Naevia glances at Crixus, dark eyes panning around the table. “When Mira returns, we will also be training new recruits to join the royal guard. We have talked extensively about the needs of the consort and the heir, considering how easy it was for Ashur to reach inside.”

Agron nods, silent and brooding. He can't seem to figure out, the angle the monsters are attempting. Why would they come now? Are they after Malik or something else? He wishes desperately that Spartacus was still here to advise him, his calm and reassurance needed now. Agron doesn't want to be rash about this, but the fear pounds at his skull like a mantra. 

"We will double all guards," Agron mutters, fingers tapping over the map, pointing to key spots along the wall and the mountain passes heading towards the city. “I want to make sure that if the vampires do attack, we are not ill prepared.”

“Highness.” Both Crixus and Naevia pat their fists to their shoulders, bowing their heads. 

“Now, I would see another problem rectified.”

Bracing his hands down on the table, Agron slowly stands, looming over the table. The red light casts dark shadows on his face, brows nearly blackening his eyes except for their faint glow. So many other men and women have stood in this room, have declared war, have sought peace, have had their hands stained with blood. Agron knows their blood is within him, that his family breathes the very life into this castle. He does not want to fail his ancestry, but he is not Gerulf – there is a need for change. 

“Barca and Auctus,” Agron murmurs, turning his head. He draws his sword slowly from the hilt leaning against the table, the amber handle looking like flames in his hand. “Kneel.”

Both guards share a glance, a single breath before sinking to their knees before their king. To their right, Duro has half risen from his chair with a choked on cry, Tove’s fist around his wrist keeping him in place. There is fear written across him, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He knows not to question the king, but Duro stares imploringly at Agron, begging not as a loyal subject but as his brother. 

Standing above them, Agron glares down at the large men. He is comparable in size, but both of them know what power the king truly possesses. A thousand years of Alpha power has charged its way through Agron’s skin, a legacy crafted in the stars themselves. One wrong move and Agron could easily tear them apart. 

“I have grown weary of this constant fight and discussion of your place within my house,” Agron sighs slowly, put upon. “You two must know of the importance the crowned prince holds. Duro is not just second in line after Malik, he is one of the only members of the royal house left until more heirs are born.”

Barca and Auctus do not move, staring straight and unwavering up at Agron. 

“That being said, I have no doubt that Nasir and I will be working in tandem to secure the line many times over.” He ignores the way Tove and Saxa share a rueful look. “Thus, I see no reason to marry my little brother away for some alliance. The new Alptraum way is not in the business of selling men and women.”

Duro’s horror has slowly began to melt into a wide grin, eyes alight with what he believes Agron is doing. 

“With that being said, I do not take this decision lightly nor do I do it with an easy heart,” Agron taps the tip of his sword to Barca’s shoulders and then Auctus’, expression still grim and glowing supernaturally green. “It is within my power to grant you both the titles of Lord Barca of the Western Plains and Lord Auctus of the Southern Marshes.”

“Thank you, majesty.” Both men echo together, trained to be soldiers until the very end. 

“And with that,” Agron lets a small smile come across his face, glancing over to Duro’s hopeful gaze. “I give you my blessing for the unity of my brother, Pietros, and you both in marriage.”

The reaction is slow at first, almost as if everyone is waiting to make sure they understand correctly. Naevia claps her hands a little, leaning into Crixus’ side. She knows what joy this is going to bring Pietros when he is told. Both Dietrich and Saxa look surprised but silent, Tove’s face a mix of emotion. Duro radiates light though, eyes gleaming gold as he shouts. 

“Agron!” Duro scrambles over his chair to throw his arms around his older brother, slamming into him with his full weight. 

“Remember your status.” Agron laughs, trying to keep them standing while also hug Duro back. 

It’s all lost cause though as Duro yanks away a moment later to nearly tackle both Barca and Auctus, wrapping his arms around them. It’s a strange sight, watching them attempt to kiss each other, and Agron makes a brotherly gagging noise above them. He’s about to call the meeting to a close, mind still heavy, when Duro pops up into a standing position again. 

“We must tell Pietros! Come!” 

Crixus manages to get the door before the prince, giving the opening of it as much as respect as the ceremony usually calls for. Duro is out before he can really get the door open all the way though, sprinting down the hallway. Both Auctus and Barca raise slowly after, sharing one last look between before bowing low to Agron. There is no need to say anything, the gratitude and happiness seeming to leak from their very beings. It only lasts a moment as Duro calls out to them for them to quickly follow. 

“Council is dismissed.” Agron offers helpfully. He waits until everyone has shuffled from the room before letting the corners of his smile fall, the weight pressing heavy on his back. He knows he cannot hide here in this room forever, but he wishes that he could. Drawing in a slow breath, Agron rolls his shoulders back and follows his brother down the hall.

It's the music that alerts them, the sweet calling of a flute followed by the rapid pounding of a drum. Someone shakes chimes, the sound echoing down the hallway as Duro stops short just outside of a doorway, mouth falling open in surprise. Auctus and Barca are close behind them, Agron having the foresight to push the other door open a little wider to make room for himself. 

The room is large, marble floors etched white and gray, five chandeliers light the length of it in golden and bright rays. The windows have their curtains drawn back, the snowstorm splattering against the frames in a wet slide. The whole space has been left empty except for the couches holding the musicians, a table nearby for wine and a small platter of food. 

Standing in a half circle, Nasir's royal house makes a beautiful image in the very center. The servants are still wearing their cream and white colored clothes, the fabric light and sheer in some places. A long sash hangs from one shoulder to the opposite hip, woven with strands of crimson, scarlet, and yellow. All of them are also adorned with a small circlet of gold, carved to look like an ouroboros. 

Spinning in two opposite circles, keeping the beat with the music, Nasir and Pietros blurs in scarlet and champagne, bells softly chiming in time with their steps. They're dressed in decadent Pythonissan dancing garb, hips weighed down by thick belts of jewels, pants split up the side to show off thighs and smooth calves. Pietros has small armbands on, fabric hanging from them and acting as scarves as he spins, swinging his hips in perfect time with Nasir’s own movements. It has been so long since anyone has seen them dressed this way, and yet the effect is still astonishing. They look celestial, existing beyond the plane of this room, this world even.

Pietros breaks away from the circles after a moment, stepping to roll his hips and arch his back, fingers curled above his face. A vine curls itself from the palm of Pietros’ hand to his hip, a tease as a small orchid blooms along the cut of his bone. Nasir follows him a moment later, grinning as he arches his own hand, a dancing of flames sliding from one hand, down his arm and then over his stomach, rolling his hips to catch it. With a practiced move, he tips his hands above his head, arching down into a bridge before easing himself onto the floor. 

“Show off.” Pietros scolds lightly, hand curling towards Nasir before moving back. 

Nasir just flashes a grin over his shoulder, spreading his knees as he still rolls his body, ribboning towards the cold marble. He appears as if liquid, a long sensuous line of tan skin and gold. The deep crimson of his pants are woven in with strands of metallic, the copper trailing up to the thick embroidery riding low and heavy on his hips. It is a marvel that Nasir can keep the clothing in place, especially considering how deeply they show the cut of his hip bones, his tattoo an emblem on his tailbone. 

“You always want to keep yourself in tight control,” Pietros instructs, having paused to accept a cup of wine from Chadara, panting hard. “Watch as he moves, how everything is carefully done so not to be sloppy, even when he gets up.”

Pressing himself flat to the floor, Nasir drags his knees under him, keeping his hips moving in short figure eights. The potions he is in is suggestive, Nasir tossing his hair back from his face when he gets his hands up, slowly raising himself up to stand. It is a position that highlights his features, the spreading of his thighs, the arch of his back. He finishes with a slow spin, rocking his hips carefully from side to side, the effect instantly drawing the eye down to his ass, the tease of skin through the slits in his pants. A shimmer of golden snake scales glides from his shoulders down to his hips, a hint at his magic, before Nasir tosses his hair and ends the dance with a small flourish.

“Excellent form.” Pietros praises, reaching forward to press a quick kiss to Nasir’s temple. “You still have it, baby or not.”

“You guys get all that?” Nasir asks, bowing for the short applause the others give him, wringing out his arms. “Looks easy, right?” 

“How do you do that? I don’t even think I can get my hips to move like that,” Chadara asks bewildered, sharing a look with Diona. Both of the women have been trained in different pleasures, different skills to make them useful to the royal house, but nothing like this. 

“Years and years of practice. Don’t compare yourself to Nasir though. He’s always been the fucking best,” Pietros sympathizes, patting Chadara’s hand. The grin on his face abruptly falls when a new voice joins them, applause too loud and mocking.

“Yes, yes, my brother still has the talent of dancing and seduction.” Ashur’s clapping cuts through the room, echoing off the tall ceilings. “But of course you all know that.” 

“Dance isn’t just used for seduction, brother.” Nasir chastises lightly, accepting his own cup of water from Bagoas. “We dance to celebrate, to mourn, to show emotion. It is part of us.”

“But you do not dance for those reasons, do you?” Ashur’s eyes slowly trail over Nasir, smirking when he again notices the small wolf charm nestled in the hallow of his throat. “You never have.”

Malik is sprawled on a blanket on a large chair, slapping his hands down on the fabric in excitement. The minute he sees his uncle, the music cutting off abruptly, he lets out a distressed warble. It is half whine and half cry, enough that Nasir is quick to move towards him, hoisting the babe on his hip and rubbing a soothing hand down his spine. Malik nuzzles against him, being careful to turn his face away from Ashur, recoiling. 

“The majesty has many talents,” Bagoas answers carefully. He, like the prince, visibly moves towards Pietros, trying but failing to keep his face neutral. Bagoas does not like the way Ashur watches them, always leering in a corner, seeing too much and pushing for more. 

“Of course.” Ashur smirks, strutting over to a small table in the corner to pour himself some wine, “I only meant that it was obvious he still has his talent in dancing and seducing men. What do you think landed him such a high position?”

It’s a low blow, something rude and unfitting for the situation they’re in and the status that Nasir holds. It’s written all over the king’s face as he looks up from his son, surprised and a little embarrassed, color staining across his cheeks. Nasir has known what others think of him, of where he is now, but he did not expect it to come from his own kin. 

“Oh Ashur,” Pietros suddenly cuts in, sharp and defensive. He cannot stand the burning on Nasir’s face, the way he lowers his eyes. “I know it must be hard on you. Always coming in last. Never had any talent, no magic. No one desiring you.”

“One does not need to be skilled in dance to gain what they want,” Ashur smirks over the rim of his glass, eyes slowly trailing down Pietros. He makes a note of how well Pietros has grown into his cheekbones, his doe eyes. “I have many ways.”

“Yes well,” Pietros waves his hand, uncaring. “I suppose those ways also landed you here. In fact, I remember someone once compared you to the usefulness of one of our horses. But that’s not true either, you can’t carry any more weight. Your ego is enough.”

“You speak very boldly,” Ashur curls his lip, temper beginning to burn in the middle of his chest. “For a bastard turned servant.”

“Ashur!” Nasir gasps, making a half aborted step forward. Malik clings to Nasir tighter though, curled on his shoulder. 

“It’s alright, Nasir,” Pietros shrugs his shoulders, looking unfazed. “It is better to be in the service of a king than to be the dog that he does not want. Tell me, Ashur, did your vampire king let you run away because he was happy to see you go? Or was he so disgusted with your pathetic whining and scheming he saw it as a blessing.”

“You-“ Ashur starts, a fist curled tight by his side as he steps towards the other man. He does not get very far before Duro throws open the door wider, banging the doorknob into the wall and making a grand entrance by striding across the floor before the guard can even announce him.

“Pietros,” Duro’s voice booms in the mostly empty room. 

“Your majesty,” Pietros drops into a quick bow, shocked when suddenly Duro is wrapping his arms around him, spinning him in a small circle. Ashur stays still at the display, mouth still turned down in disgust. 

“Most glorious news," Duro presses a quick kiss to Pietros' upturned mouth, pecking his nose right after. "Agron has given lord titles to Barca and Auctus and bestowed upon each of them a large section of land. He has given his blessing to marry."

"You have?" Pietros turns as the king enters the room, nodding his head. He watches as Agron walks across the room, instantly moving over to Nasir. It's not before sending a glare at Ashur though, snarling until just a hint of his fangs. He easily slips Malik out of Nasir’s arms as well, soothing his son by curling him in the edge of Agron’s fur cloak. 

“Soon, I will place a crown upon your head and you will be made royalty,” Duro cannot help the grin spreading across his face, feeling light and airy. 

"I can't believe it," Pietros chortles, throwing his arms around Duro's neck. Their kiss is slow, the melting of mouths and tongues as Pietros presses his thin body against Duro’s harder one. He does the same in the next moment when both Barca and Auctus make their way in as well, seeming to have waited until it was fitting to enter. 

“We will have to wait until the summer,” Barca’s deep voice peaks in the small room, “to be married among the trees and grass as I know you wish.”

“To be sworn to one another in a field of flowers, the sun lighting our path,” Auctus adds, his own fingers teasing on Pietros and Duro’s waists. 

Pietros strokes his hand lovingly over Barca’s face, unable to keep himself from grinning as both Duro and Auctus share a kiss over their shoulders. He never assumed, never even thought, even after Nasir had been married and they had come to this land, that Pietros would ever find this happiness. That the four of them would fall in love and be given the opportunity to express it. 

“Pietros,” Nasir calls out, drawing his attention. He looks so very small next to Agron’s massive shoulders, glittering in gold and silver. “What are you doing?”

“What?” Pietros raises his eyebrows, surprised at Nasir’s laughing tone. 

“Why are you still here?” Motioning with his hands, Nasir shoos him. “Go celebrate. I have no need of you for the rest of the day.”

Duro looks to Agron, waits until his brother waves his hand too, distracted by Malik’s soft prattling on. He isn’t saying any words yet, but he makes noises, drawing Agron’s attention. When Malik makes a louder sound, Agron hums down at him, raising his brow as if he’s listening to the most interesting story. 

“Come.” Barca slips his hand into Pietros’. “Let us find celebration elsewhere.”

The four men leave together, whispering amongst themselves with arms wrapped around one another. They make an interesting group, but no more so than the one left in the room itself. 

“Ashur,” Agron’s voice rumbles through the room, the sound of it instantly silencing any small conversation that had been taking place. 

“Don’t, please. He falls to drink too early. It is all so new for him,” Nasir whispers, pressing a desperate hand to Agron’s chest. He is gently but completely ignored as Agron turns his whole body to glare at the other man. 

“You are a guest in my house and blood to my consort, but I will not stand for such words to be tossed around so lightly,” Agron rumbles, even Malik is silent and staring in his arms. “You will learn respect and your place, or I will be happy to supply an instructor.”

“You cannot mean-“ Ashur shakes his head, that coiling smirk spreading over his face. It dims slightly when Agron growls, the effect instanteous as the others in the room drop into a low and submissive bow. 

“I do not _mean_ anything. I command you as your king.” Agron keeps glaring at him until Ashur too bows his head, though it is with a snarling resign that he does it. 

Turning on his heel, Agron makes his way through the open door and into the hallway, Malik still curled in his arms. He’s followed a moment later by soft bells, Nasir’s fingers wrapping around his forearm as they stop in the hall. To the right and left, guards bow their heads but do not greet them. 

“He is having a hard time acclimating. It’s a lot to take in,” Nasir begs for understanding. “He sees me as his little brother, not his king.”

“But you _are_ his king,” Agron stresses, teeth clenched with keeping his temper at bay. “Nasir, you are a king. And it does not matter if your very own father stood in Ashur’s place, it is still your position in this house. Ashur need to learn to address you and treat you to your highest place.”

“Agron, I know, but-“ Nasir drops his eyes, flushing again, but Agron will not let him hide from this conversation. He cups Nasir’s jaw with one hand, drawing him back up and stooping until he can press his forehead down against Nasir’s. Malik coos gently between them, touching each of their cheeks. 

“Do not let him cheapen you nor disregard all that you have suffered to gain the position you have.” Agron stresses, gaze bright and intense this close up. “You too are more than what your father wanted for you. More than what your mother tried to protect.”

Nasir nods, unable to put into words what he wants to say. Agron’s words seem to fill him up, to warm the dark and cold places inside of him that have been bitter and festering for so long. He cannot think except to press his hands to Agron’s face and kiss him gently, to put thankfulness and love into action than being said. Perhaps, one day, they will not need to reassure one another of this. One day, maybe Agron and Nasir will believe it. 

\- - - 

 

Ashur paces back and forth in his small bedroom, hands clasped before him. He has the urge to pick up the cup of wine beside his bed, the bottle, the fucking basin of sweet smelling fruit and throw it as hard as he can against the wooden door. It would prove futile though, an act of rage that Ashur cannot allow himself to submit to. Not after what had happened in the empty hall today, Ashur's tongue nearly unraveling the whole plan. 

Agron had seen though. He had gazed upon Ashur through supernatural eyes, glaring in the firelight, and had glimpsed the darkness that grows inside of Ashur. It will not matter in the long run, but Ashur has to wonder if Agron's instincts can sense what is about to happen. Do his hackles rise when he looks at Ashur? Does he know who is responsible? 

With the first potion, the one to surge Nasir's magic and force him into labor, Ashur had seen his plan easily falling into place. Malik's birth had weakened Nasir - both physically and mentally. He was thirsty for connection, for family and friends to support him. Spinning the tides, Ashur had arrived and been that. He was Nasir's oldest brother, a gift from the very fates. And with this power, Ashur began to weave in the lies and doubt, just enough to have Nasir pausing - to question. What he had not foreseen, the hitch in his masterful deceit, was Nasir turning his breaking resolve towards another. 

Caesar is not a patient king. Nor is he a man that likes to sit idle while others carry out plans that he cannot. Still, his orders were to be followed. Ashur was sent to lead Nasir away, to break the couple and deliver both Nasir and the child into Caesar's hands to be used as bait. There will be nothing that Agron won't give to secure the safety of his family. 

Yet, even with Ashur's prodding and provoking, Nasir had run to Agron, strengthing their bond. He was forced to secure another form of magic, a spell that would ensure Ashur gain control over Nasir. The potion only lased an evening, just long enough for Ashur to spin the worst sort of lies, the words exactly needed to hurt Agron the most. It had seemed almost comically easy. The Taurant king had stoked the fire, staring so openly and ogling Agron before Nasir. Then his queen had cemented the lost feelings growing inside of Nasir. Finally, Ashur only had to twist his own tongue and Nasir was curling the lies and slurs against Agron. 

He had not accounted for the illness that would descend upon Nasir, poisoning him and forcing him to recoil even further. Ashur had seen it almost as a double blessing, a sign from the gods themselves that he was on the right path. And then, when all seemed to be working, Nasir separated from his house, Pietros, Agron – fate turned her ugly and conniving head. 

Ashur woke but a week ago to find Agron and Nasir sitting close together on a couch in the main room of the suite, whispering to one another under a thick blanket. They hadn’t fucked, or so Ashur could guess from the way they were still dressed from the day before, faces pulled down in exhaustion, but still, they seemed too enraptured with one another to stop their quiet conversation. 

Now, there is no time left. The final potion burns hot in his palm, the tiny cork stained black at the very center. It will be effective nearly instantly, the toxins working their way through Nasir’s body, stripping him of his magic. He will be left weak and powerless, a shadow of the sentient being he stands. No, Nasir will be nothing but completely human. 

\- - -

The door to the throne room opens with a nearly inaudible click, a small sliver of light from the hallway spreading across the floor before it's quickly extinguished. Agron does not lift his head from where he's holding it, elbows resting on his knees. He had wandered here after dinner, thoughts and mind heavy, repeating over and over the council meeting from before. He can't seem to shake the feeling that he is a mouse caught in the center of a game he did not even realize he was playing. 

Soft footsteps draw his attention for a moment, bare feet on marble and a swish of fabric. Agron doesn't have to look to know who it is, can smell the spice and jasmine in the air. He had not thought that anyone would be awake, the moon shining full and bright through the oculus above the throne.

"Hour is late," Nasir's voice is soft, caressing each word as if he does not want to disturb the peace of the room, "and yet when I woke, hands searching bed for warm press of my husband, I found him absent."

"I'm sorry," Agron rubs at his eyes, blinking the sparkling lights away as he glares back down at the floor. "I fear my mind is elsewhere and sleep would not come. The crown sits heavy tonight."

"You bear the weight of at least ten kings," Nasir softly admonishes,  
"You cannot save the world, my love. It will not let you."

"Would that I could." Agron sighs deeply. 

"Put heavy thoughts aside." Nasir moves closer to the throne, stepping up onto the platform it rests upon. "I would offer you distraction from such dark thoughts."

Agron can see the tops of Nasir's feet peaking out through the sheer fabric of his robe; the emerald fabric glimmers in the silver light from above. It is the same that he wore on their wedding night, ornate and long enough to drag on the floor. Slowly dragging his eyes up, Agron slides his gaze over Nasir's bare calves, the curve of his knees, thighs smooth and soft. The buttons of the robe have been left open, hanging loose around Nasir's hips. Agron cannot help but stare at the flat stomach with a small golden hoop through his navel. Nasir's chest is still soft, nipples slightly peaked in the cold air. The only adornment he is still wearing is the small wolf charm at his throat, hair cascading around him in thick waves. The smirk on Nasir's face is heated, eyes sparking as he watches Agron's jaw drop. 

"Fuck." 

Agron's hands raise on their own accord, palms smoothing over Nasir's thighs, easing onto the back and up over his ass. He leans forward on the throne, kissing wetly just to the right of Nasir's navel, pulling him closer so he can trail the small nips and sucks higher, coaxing a kiss bruise just below Nasir's nipple. 

It's not enough, dragging Nasir forward and down, spreading his legs around Agron's own. He perches, straddling Agron's lap as Nasir wraps his arms around Agron's neck, leaning down to kiss him. It cannot stay chaste, Agron pressing hard until Nasir falls open under him, moaning around Agron's tongue in his mouth. 

Agron kisses as if he's a starved man, lips surrounding Nasir's bottom one, suckling the skin before biting. He wants to taste every inch of Nasir, hands gravitating to his hair, holding his head in place as Agron fucks his tongue against the roof of Nasir's mouth. He can feel Nasir's gasps against his own lips, tingling cold air that Agron sucks in, breathes every exhale. 

The room is cold and yet the space between their bodies seems to be sweltering. Nasir's fingers fumble on the laces up Agron's tunic, tugging the leather until it parts. They only separate for a moment, just enough to get the fabric over Agron's head, but the result is fever. Nasir cannot still his hands, coaxing over Agron's shoulders, his chest, his abs. He can feel Agron's cock presses against his ass, twitching when Nasir grinds down against it. 

"It has been too long," Agron groans, hands stroking over Nasir's ass, gripping it tightly. "Are you sure that you are healed-"

"Yes." Nasir hisses, cutting him off. He repeats the noise a moment later as Agron pushes him back a little, trailing biting kisses from his neck down his chest, latching onto a nipple. 

Nasir's moan fills the room, head thrown back as Agron works the bud between his teeth before slowly suckling on it. It hinges on too painful and perfect pleasure, already sore and leaking. Nasir's fingers scramble in Agron's hair, wanting to push him away and also wanting to pull him closer, frantically petting over the strands. 

Between their stomachs, Nasir's cock twitches, drooling over the cut lines of Agron's abs. He cannot seem to slow himself down, feverish and wanting, Nasir digging his fingers into Agron's shoulders and then over to his chest. He wants to drink in all of Agron’s skin, to lap and suck bruises into Agron’s thighs, his back, his stomach. Nasir wants to feel the heavy press of Agron’s cock against his tongue, drooling sticky salt. 

“Oil?” Agron asks, lifting them both out of the chair by his hips only long enough to yank down his pants and then kick them away. Nasir’s robe has fallen down to his shoulders, a forgotten after thought. 

“I already stretched myself for you,” Nasir pants, fingers teasing across Agron’s hips to gently circle the crown of his cock. There is already a pearl of precome there that Nasir easily swipes away with his thumb.

“Is this what you did when you woke to find me absent from our bed?” Agron’s teasing loses some of the bite as his fingers trail between the soft cheeks of Nasir’s ass, pressing lightly against his hole. “It will not be enough.”

“I want-“ Nasir loses his train of thought as Agron slowly presses a finger into him, face frozen in shock before the pleasure suddenly forces him down boneless. 

“You want me to press myself inside of you so that you feel it after? The thick press of my cock every time you sit or breathe deeply?” Agron guesses, easing his finger slowly into a rhythm. He slides the second one in easily enough, though Nasir clenches down on him with a soft sound. 

_I want you to claim me_ Nasir’s mind whimpers, biting at bottom lip. 

“You are already mine,” Agron growls, pumping his fingers a little faster and spreading. Even with the preparation, there is no doubt in Agron’s mind that the fit will be tight. He has not been inside of Nasir in months, kept at bay by the pregnancy and then Nasir’s slow recovery. “Perhaps I just need to remind you of that.”

Nasir laces his fingers behind Agron's neck and drags their mouths together again. He cannot seem to stop seeking out Agron's taste, his tongue pressing thick and slow to each of Nasir's teeth, robbing every moan and sound from him. Nasir has spent so long only finding satisfaction with Agron's hands on him, his fingers buried deep inside, he cannot help that he craves more. He wants the breaking point, the feeling of Agron's cock buried inside of him, robbing his every breath. 

Agron grips Nasir's jaw, dents his cheeks with his fingers as he pushes him back a little. He needs to see it in Nasir's eyes. He can feel their magic crackling, a flame sliding down the side of Nasir's throat, but it's not enough. Agron needs to be sure, to know that this frenzied lust is anchored in Nasir's desire. 

"Agron," Nasir pants hard, rolling his hips tightly. It drags their cocks together, sticky and leaking, a tantalizing ember of pleasure buzzing pleasantly. " _Agron_."

"Fuck, you're so fucking beautiful." Agron groans, dragging him into another kiss. 

It does not last though, broken up by panting breaths and moans as Agron slips his fingers free. They inhale together, eyes locked as Nasir slowly raises up on his knees, Agron's arms wrapped around them. Nasir's gasp ghosts across Agron's lips when Agron's cock breaches him. He does not falter though, mouth open around a silent cry as slowly he sinks down, taking Agron into is body. Nasir keeps one hand on Agron's shoulder and on the back of the throne, fingers curled desperately around a snarling wolf's head. 

" _Agron!_ " Nasir moans at the top of his lungs, head thrown back as settles fully down on Agron's lap.

"Fuck." Agron answers, rubbing soothing hands over and over Nasir's back, caressing him to try and combat Nasir's trembling. 

Nasir hisses, body seeming to decide on the direction his magic wants to go. Golden lines dance over Nasir's chest, a dozen sparks cascading from his hands, a crown of lilies blooming around his crown. 

Wrapping his hands around Nasir, Agron fits them on his hips and slowly guides Nasir up, coaxing him back down. His cock drags deliciously inside of Nasir, enveloped in the tight, wet heat. Nasir seems dazed by it, another moan punched out of him as Agron pulls him down. 

Between one thrust and another, Nasir manages to get his knees more firmly on the throne, hands dragging up to curl over the wolves beside Agron’s head. He uses them as a brace as he arches, sinking back onto Agron's cock in one quick glide. The easy pace only lasts a few more bounces before Agron raises his hips to meet Nasir, the pace changing from slow and gentle to bruising. 

Nasir's voice echoes around the room, a mantra of cries and hisses as heavy vines climb up the walls. He tries to smother them down into Agron's mouth, whimpering around Agron's bruising kisses, but the pace is too perfect, body succumbing to the need to call out. 

Agron is captivated by Nasir, every part of him. Lights dance around his lovely face, cheeks flushed and eyes bright as he tries to keep his rhythm. Agron doesn't blame his slipping composure, already his orgasm burns hot and needy at the base of his spine, hands bruising Nasir's flesh as he slams him down on his cock. 

"Love you so much,” Agron slips a hand around, wraps it around Nasir’s leaking and flushed cock. 

It cannot last. Both of them are wound too tight, bodies burning to find completion with one another. Agron barely gets a half dozen strokes in before Nasir is clamping down, pupils blown as he stares at Agron with an open mouth. The scream shatters in the mostly empty throne room, echoing loud and high pitched as Nasir tampers down to a moaning hiss, head falling back in pleasure. His cock spurts between them, a blur as Agron’s hands clamp down on his hips and lifts them. 

Locking his arms around Nasir’s body, Agron holds him in the air and thrusts into him, pace brutal and unforgiving. He’s so close, the temperature of the room staggering as Agron can feel Nasir’s body going lax, though he still clenches down on Agron’s cock, absently mouthing at his neck. Leaning up, Nasir gently licks at Agron’s earlobe, the soft inside of his bottom lip dragging against the sensitive skin and that’s enough. 

Agron cannot stop his half transformation as he comes, body pulsing inside of Nasir’s tight body. Fangs spring long and sharp though his gums, eyes blaring as he growls, clawless hands clamping down on Nasir’s smooth back. It seems to take his knees out from under him, collapsing back with Nasir still wrapped around him, cock twitching roughly, still trying to come down. 

Panting and shaking, both Agron and Nasir stay pressed against one another in the throne. The pleasure still courses through them, trembling nerves and exhaustion. Nasir tucks his head against Agron’s neck, curls up tight with Agron still buried deep inside of him. Agron can’t stop his hands from gently caressing over Nasir’s back, through his hair, over his thighs and ass and then back up. It is not until sometime later that Nasir finally makes a noise. 

“I’ve missed that so much.”

“Me too. I don’t know why we ever stopped.” 

The response is automatic, Agron affectionately ghosting his thumb over Nasir’s cheek. They share a soft kiss, gentle and chaste compared to earlier, and yet it still has Nasir’s heart throbbing. 

Nasir hums thoughtfully, tracing a line of seed down Agron’s chest before lapping it off his finger. “I probably shouldn’t have let you come inside me.” Nasir asks a moment later, brow furrowing. 

“Why?” Agron scoffs, pursing his lips. He likes the feeling of him deep inside Nasir, the scent lingering.

“I mean, we don’t exactly know how this baby thing works.” Nasir replies, body clenching down as he tries to sit back a little to look at Agron. “What if I just got pregnant?”

“What if you did?” Agron shrugs one shoulder, relaxing back against the lush cushions of the throne. From this angle, he can see the small smile on Nasir’s face, eyes dazed and thinking. 

“You going to give me lots of babies?”

Nasir bites his bottom lip, a pretty flush ghosting over his cheeks. He had thought about it, curled up with Malik in his arms, how the little prince deserves a brother or sister. It could be inevitable really, with as much as Nasir fears he is addicted to Agron’s body. He nods shyly, glancing through his eyelashes to watch as Agron breaks into a grin, dimples denting his cheeks. Wrapping his arms around Agron’s neck again, Nasir leans in to kiss him again, deepening it only for a moment with a soft curl of his tongue. 

“Let’s go upstairs.” Agron growls, a glimmer of magic sliding copper gold from Agron’s hands to Nasir’s. “I don’t think I’ve had my fill of you yet.”

They stagger up, Nasir trying to pull his robe back on and keep it closed, legs shaking a little. Agron dresses haphazardly, tying up his pants but leaving his shirt open and loose. They can’t keep their hands off each other, arms wrapped around one another as they head towards the door, blind and distracted to the man crouching in the very corner of the room. 

Ashur waits until the royal couple disappears from sight, their giggling fading, before he opens the door to the balcony. It was not his intention to witness such an intimate act. He had been following Nasir, unsure of where he was sneaking off into the middle of the night, when he had found them fucking on the royal throne. Ashur knew better to retreat and draw attention to himself, so instead, he had stood still and watched as Nasir rode Agron, calling out his name. 

The bat enters instantly, fluttering around until Ashur yanks it from the air and snips the message from its ankle before releasing it. The scroll is short, no rolling letters or instructions given to the very detail. Instead, Caesar’s own hand writing sits neat and clear in the center of the page. 

_We are coming._


End file.
